The Mystery of the Dark Knight
by Sly M. Cogan
Summary: Crossover between the Batman and Sherlock Holmes universes. Before becoming Batman, while traveling the world and training to fight evil, Bruce Wayne becomes a student of the famous Sherlock Holmes and takes on several baffling criminal investigations.
1. Young Bruce Wayne Meets Sherlock Holmes

Disclaimer - I own no legal rights to Sherlock Holmes or Batman/Bruce Wayne, nor to any other related characters and materials.

**A/N_ – This idea isn't entirely my own. I was actually inspired by an Internet message board I stumbled across arguing over who was the greater detective: Batman or Sherlock Holmes. One brave poster actually suggested an unwritten chapter in the history of the Batman legend. _**

**_This brave poster suggested that Batman was such a great detective _because _he had met Sherlock Holmes. This poster argued that if Bruce Wayne had traveled the world after his parents death, learning the arts of fighting and crime solving from the world's experts, he would surely have sought the tutelage of Sherlock Holmes, the undisputed expert in the science of deduction._**

_**The idea began tickling in my head that maybe the unwritten chapter the message board suggested should go unwritten no more.**_

**_Batman's first comic book appearance took place about a decade after the death of Sherlock Holmes' creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. According to the legend of Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective was retired at this time and relaxing as a beekeeper in Sussex. Somewhere during this decade, it is conceivable that a young Bruce Wayne might have met the acquaintance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes._**

**_With the recent success of _"Batman Begins", _a movie which shows in great detail the training of Batman, this is the perfect time to tell the story of that meeting._**

_**With no further ado, and with thanks to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to the mystery poster, we begin our tale…**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**The Mystery of the Dark Knight"**

The day seemed dark and gray. This was ironic, since the sun was shining a bright, glorious yellow, and the grass looked especially green as it danced gently in the coolSummer breeze.

Young Bruce Wayne was oblivious to the happy songs of birds and the beauties of nature. This day was as dark and ugly as every day had been since his parents had died. He had been oblivious to beauty ever since he watched his lovely mother bleed and breathe her last breath.

Despite the stormy weather that existed in Bruce's head, others were much less despondent to the beauties of nature. One man seemed cheerful indeed as Bruce spotted him from the distance.

Bruce Wayne stopped at the bright white picket fence and watched the man who seemed strangely at ease in the midst of a thin black and yellow cloud.

Bruce could hear the loud, menacing buzzing from the fence. He shuddered as he watched the man surrounded by the small, winged insects. He had a brief vision of a boy, only eight years old, surrounded by a similar cloud of winged creatures. Only these creatures were bats.

Bruce shook the vision off and tried to study the curious man. His heart began to beat wildly. Could this man be the one Bruce had been seeking? Was this the man who was famous for his deep insight into the criminal mind? Was this the man who could help Bruce understand evil in all of its forms? Could this man help Bruce understand what was going through the mind of the bedraggled man that had stood before Dr. Thomas Wayne and his wife and pulled a trigger?

Bruce Wayne swallowed a lump in his throat. He had better not get his hopes up before he was sure this was indeed the man he was looking for. He pulled a small, graying piece of paper out of his pocket. He had asked around at a lot of smoky taverns to get the address he was holding. Bruce pushed the door of the fence. It opened with a gentle creak, barely audible above the sound of the buzzing bees.

The Sussex beekeeper replaced the last hive and lifted his veil. Bruce Wayne beheld an aging man, probably in his late 70's. The man had a rather angular chin that jutted out beneath a hawk like nose. Peering down the nose were two blue eyes, slowly turning a hazy gray, but with a bit of intensity still left in them which struck Bruce Wayne's soul with full force.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" asked Bruce.

The beekeeper stepped up to Bruce, took one quick glance from foot to head, and then placed a hand under his chin.

"You're young Master Bruce Wayne, I presume?"

Bruce felt too weary to manage anything but a gasp. The gasp came out more like a wheeze, but the bewilderment was fully displayed in Bruce's wide eyes.

The beekeeper laughed, his thin lips moving into a wide grin.

"You weren't expecting me, were you?" asked Bruce. "I know I didn't tell you I was coming."

"Simple deduction, really," said Holmes. "Quite elementary. A man with such a high profile as yours, even from another country, can't disappear mysteriously and then reemerge without instant recognition. I must say, the disappearance of the heir to the Wayne estate in Gotham City made quite a few waves across the entire globe. Besides, we share a mutual friend. One Mr. Alfred Pennyworth."

The thought of the Wayne family's caring butler brought a smile even to the gloomy heir's face.

"I also deduce that you have spent some time recently in Mexico, that you are a fighter, and that you attracted the attention of a certain fair _senorita_."

Bruce tried to hide his amazement.

"You could have just said _'Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes'_," he muttered. Holmes laughed once again.

"Would you care to join me for tea, Master Wayne?"

Sherlock Holmes led Bruce into his small cottage. He disappeared for a moment, only to reemerge wearing a black and yellow dressing robe and carrying a similarly colored tea set. His hair was snowy white and rapidly thinning.

"I hope you enjoy the tea," said Holmes. "It's a special recipe created by my former housekeeper Mrs. Hudson, God rest her soul."

Bruce eyed the items on a nearby plate suspiciously.

"Crumpets," said Holmes, answering Bruce's unspoken question. As Holmes finished carefully pouring tea into a black and yellow cup, Bruce timidly dipped the edge of one of the biscuits into the hot liquid.

"How did you know those things about me?" asked Bruce.

"I simply observed and deduced," replied Holmes. "I observed the torn skin on your knuckles, and I deduced from this that you've found yourself in at least one particularly vicious fight, probably several. I observed the travel guide at the top of the bag you're carrying, and I deduced from this that you've spent time recently in Mexico. May I ask what for?"

"I lived in an opium den for a week," said Bruce. "I observed the sin and vices of men."

"And what did you deduce from this?" asked Holmes. Bruce just looked at him blankly. "You observed, but you did not deduce. What good is a talent for observation without the science of deduction?"

"How did you know about the senorita?" asked Bruce.

"That was the simplest deduction of all," said Holmes. "There is a rose thorn in your sleeve and a lipstick stain on your collar. I suggest that her name was Marie."

"Maria," said Bruce. "How did you guess?"

"I never guess," said Holmes. "I made an hypothesis based on my personal knowledge as well as the information at hand. Now, may I deduce why you have come to visit me? You wish to study under me the same thing you studied in the opium den. The nature of evil."

"And the rooting out of it," added Bruce.

"I am afraid you may have come to me with the wrong conception," said Holmes. "I am a retired man. I have long separated myself from the study of criminals."

"I understand that," said Bruce. "I just want you to teach me. I want you to teach me everything you know about the criminal mind. I want you to tell me how to recognize a criminal when I see one."

"I'm afraid it's never that simple," said Holmes. "Deduction is a science. It can never be based on initial impressions, but only on facts and careful analysis."

"I'm willing to devote as much time as it takes to learn this science."

"To what end?" inquired Holmes.

"I want to be able to seek out criminals wherever they lurk," said Bruce. "I want to bring evil to justice."

"I suspect there is an underlying reason for this," said Holmes. Bruce hung his head. The cottage morphed into a dark alleyway around him. His mother and father stood before him, their eyes filled with fear. The scene dissolved into blackness, and the cottage slowly began to reappear.

"You need not tell me," said Holmes. "You need only to know it yourself. This science, like any, requires discipline. I'm afraid I won't make very exciting company, since I am mostly a homebody these days."

"I don't mind," said Bruce. "As long as you'll agree to be my teacher."

"You will have to assume responsibilities as you share this roof," said Holmes. "You'll help tidy the cottage, wash the china, and, above all, keep the bees. Doubtless, you aren't accustomed to such things."

"I will do what you ask," said Bruce.

"Very well," said Holmes, smiling warmly. "You'll start after tea."


	2. A Study in Deductive Science

_Disclaimer – I own nothing! Nothing!_

**Hermione Holmes – _You're the first person to have reviewed this story. Congratulations! And thank you._**

**Miz Perfect_ – I've done my research since receiving your comment. Turns out there have been not only comic books but comic strips and radio shows imagining a meeting between Sherlock Holmes and Batman. In the different stories, Sherlock Holmes has been alive, dead, fictional, and non-fictional. Also, a children's book I skimmed through about Batman and Crime Detection included a photograph of Basil Rathbone in deerstalker and cloak. The caption underneath said something to the effect of Batman and Sherlock Holmes being the world's two greatest detectives._**

_**And here I thought I'd stumbled onto an idea for the one Sherlock Holmes crossover that had never been done before!**_

**_Dreamsprite 5 - Sherlock does seem to have mellowed out in his old age here, doesn't he? Don't worry. He'll still have his characteristic periods of moodiness._**

**_Wanderer1 - Short, sweet, and to the point. I sincerely consider your one word review to be _**_**high praise, indeed.**_

Bruce Wayne sat in silence and ate yet another breakfast consisting of a cup of tea and a slice of toast covered in honey. The sparse breakfast seemed to be all Holmes would eat. Once when Bruce asked his host why he ate such a scanty meal, Holmes replied that he rarely ate breakfast at all, and that he was just now forming the habit in an attempt to further prolong his lifespan.

During the course of other meals, Bruce had attempted to start a conversation with his host about crime and the science of deduction. Holmes' answer was usually short and noncommittal. The conversations never lasted. This morning, Bruce had decided not to even attempt another one.

It had been a little over a week since Bruce had arrived at Holmes' cottage. He was bored. He'd washed the dishes, polished the china, swept the cottage floor, done the laundry, and kept himself occupied with every demeaning task Holmes handed down to him. All he had to show for it was dishpan hands and at least a dozen bee stings.

Holmes dabbed his mouth with a napkin and pushed his plate and cup towards Bruce.

"Are you going to tend to your bees this morning?" asked Bruce.

"As always," replied Holmes coldly. "You're to help me."

"When are we going to start our lessons?" Bruce asked.

"We've already started."

"What do you mean we've already started?" demanded Bruce, nearly snarling. Holmes frowned.

"Lessons in patience. Lessons in discipline. Lessons in taking pride in your work. These lessons are the basis of all skills."

"I have no time for those," insisted Bruce. "I came to learn to hunt down criminals. If you're not going to help me…"

"See what I mean?" said Holmes. "You have no patience. But you can't leave. If you didn't really want my teaching you wouldn't have gone through all of this trouble of seeking me out."

There was a hard silence. Holmes looked at Bruce. Bruce looked at Holmes. Finally, Holmes' tense face loosened up ever so slightly.

"Very well, Master Wayne," said Holmes. "If you wish to learn the science of deduction, you shall begin your studies."

Sherlock Holmes led Bruce Wayne into his study. Bruce looked around the room. A chart on the wall displayed a strange array of dancing men. On another wall, pieces of junk mail were held up by the point of a sharp jack knife. There was a small chemistry set on a table against another wall. A strand of red hair was mounted on a slide beneath a microscope.

Around the room were eight plaster busts. Seven were of Napoleon Bonaparte and seemed to have been roughly glued together. The other was of Sigmund Freud.

Bruce looked up and noticed a tall coat rack. A cloak was hanging from one peg, and a deerstalker sat atop.

Bruce gawked at the coat rack and moved towards it slowly and religiously, as if it was a sacred idol.

"I didn't think the outfit really existed."

"It didn't," said Holmes. "Not at first. After my former roommate began selling accounts of my investigations to the Strand, an illustrator invented it. I had to start wearing the deerstalker and cape to be recognized and respected."

Holmes paused and looked Bruce in the eyes.

"It became an image. Sometimes in this business, an image is a powerful asset. This is a hunting outfit, usually worn in the outdoors. It symbolizes the hunt for criminal masterminds and evildoers everywhere. I think the cloak and deerstalker strike fear into the hearts of criminals more than my deductive abilities alone ever could. The image is what makes criminals tremble, slip up, and give themselves away."

Holmes looked from Bruce to the coat rack and sighed. He looked wistfully at the deerstalker. "I haven't worn that since the adventure of the retired colorman."

The great detective moved to a small table nearby and lifted a pinewood container. He opened it to reveal a calabash pipe.

"This was another of the illustrator's ideas," said Holmes.

He then lifted a Persian slipper off the floor. Reaching into the toe, Holmes pulled out an amount of tobacco and placed it in the pipe. Bruce removed a match from his pocket and struck it, lighting the master detective's pipe.

Holmes removed a small glass key from the pocket of his robe. He placed the lock in the keyhole on a glass cabinet door. The door swung open with a soft creaking sound.

Holmes removed two heavy piles of paper from the cabinet.

"My monograms," he said as he handed the first heavy pile to Bruce. "Essays I have written on the science of deduction. Shoe print analysis, smoking ash analysis, height analysis. All covered in full."

He handed the next pile to Bruce. The young man's knees buckled under the weight.

"My personal accounts of all of my investigations," said Holmes. "I explain in great detail the scientific analysis and thought processes that led me from first collecting the details of the case to finally deducing the guilty party. Until now, I have kept them strictly for my own analysis."

Bruce grunted and placed the heavy pile onto the mahogany desk that sat in the center of the room.

"As I have before told you, criminal detection is an exact science. Scientific research is performed by analyzing the facts and absorbing all of the data possible. You must make your own inferences and connections. You must study and learn all of the basic laws and theorems."

Bruce stifled a yawn. Holmes looked at him haughtily.

"I assume this will satiate your desire for knowledge?"

"Sure," Bruce said with a sigh. He then looked back at the glass cabinet. There was another stack of papers inside. Holmes followed Bruce's glance. He then walked over to the cabinet and removed the final stack.

"These are other accounts of my investigations," said Holmes.

"There's more?" said Bruce incredulously, eying the tall pile in front of him.

"These aren't my own accounts," explained Holmes. His face fell and sadness filled his eyes. "These were written by my old friend, Dr. John Watson. He took a much less scientific approach to his accounts. He dramatized my work quite a bit. Sold most of the accounts as mere detective stories to magazines. These were his rough drafts."

"Why do you keep them?" Bruce asked.

"Sentimental value," said Holmes, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "You may look at these as well if you'd like."

After Bruce had accepted the final stack and placed it next to the other, Holmes placed the glass key down on the desk.

"You may lock up when you're finished with your studies," said Holmes. "I'm going to tend to my bees."

After Holmes closed the door of the study, Bruce turned to the pile. He decided to start by reading one of Holmes' personal accounts.

_"I was finishing my experiments on hemoglobin when Stanford interrupted. He introduced me to a man who was with him. I immediately recognized the man as being a Dr. John Watson, and I perceived that he had been in Afghanistan. I deduced this, firstly, from the coloring of his skin, and secondly…"_


	3. The Case of the Winged Demon, Pt 1

_Disclaimer – Here's the obligatory disclaimer. I don't own any type of legal rights to the Batman or Sherlock Holmes. Period._

**HouAreYouToday_ – Thank you for taking the time to check out my little fanfic. I hope you find later chapters as "fantastic" as those so far._**

**Dreamsprite5_ – Thanks for sticking around. I know what you mean, and I'll try to delve deeper into Sherlock Holmes' mind as I continue this fic._**

**Lady Razorsharp_ – I happen to have always loved the deerstalker/Inverness/Calabash, but I know you're not the only Sherlockian with those pet peeves. As for your other quibbles, I've gone back and made some tiny changes to the first chapter. However, as much as I want to stay true to Sir Arthur's writings, Holmes is changing roles from hero to aging mentor, so there will be some small departures from Holmes' character in the canon._**

**Kenta Divina _– It's Bruce Wayne's deductive powers that gives Batman an edge rather than superpowers, and I hope to explore just how he honed those deductive powers in the first place. Glad to know you're enjoying this._**

**Moonjava_ – Thank you for your comments. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long for this chapter, but I don't have enough free time to guarantee updates will be frequent. Please have patience with me._**

**Thomas Thurman_ – I think you're the first person to review more than one of my stories. Thanks!_**

**A/N_ – I'm back! Thank you for all of your reviews, both the raves and the constructive criticism, while I've been brainstorming ideas for the rest of this adventure._**

**_I've started reading the graphic novel "Batman: Detective #27" by Michael Uslan, Peter Snejbjerg, and Lee Loughridge. It's a far cry from anything else in the Batman universe, and I'll probably disregard everything in it when writing this. Still, it's an interesting book, and it captures what I'm going for with this mystery, having Batman interact with events from a different time and with different characters from literature, and, as I hope to do, it plants several of the seeds that will mature into the traits of the Batman stories we all know and love. _**

_**One idea I had when I sat down to start this story was to send Bruce and Sherlock on not one but a series of adventures. After all, the Arthur Conan Doyle canon is made of more short stories than novels. Now that plan goes into effect. Our first adventure is adapted from "The Mystery of the Winged Lady", one of my original fics. I hope you enjoy it, and either way, remembers to let me know what you think of it.**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**The Case of the Winged Demon"**

August, 1935. Bruce Wayne remembered all the things that Sherlock Holmes had warned him about when they first met. Things weren't very exciting at the beekeeper's cottage. Most of Bruce's time was spent, as before, doing tedious chores. All of the time remaining was spent studying the papers Holmes had given him.

Bruce Wayne had surprised himself when he started to read through the papers. He had been eager to read through Holmes' accounts and learn the science of deduction firsthand from the master. But Bruce found himself gravitating more often towards Watson's papers. Dr. Watson's style was much more empathetic, much more human than Mr. Holmes' machine-like chronicles. As Bruce skimmed through Watson's accounts, he felt as though he was actually learning something. He felt like he was absorbing more of Holmes' skill through the secondhand accounts than the first.

Even though Bruce was fascinated by Watson's writings, he still found himself growing restless and fatigued. It was not unusual for Bruce to nap during his studies.

Holmes himself made a very unusual companion. The cottage often reeked of pipe tobacco and failed chemistry experiments, and the infinite screeching of a violin often kept Bruce awake at night.

It was very unusual of Holmes to receive guests, which is why Bruce was so amazed to step out of his room late one morning and hear voices coming from downstairs. Holmes was seated across from a very tall stranger. The man had a very pale face, darkened only by comparison with his snowy white hair, still blonde at the roots. A thick mustache was twirled at the ends.

The two men rose as Bruce approached them.

"Ahh, Gregson, this is my new friend, the young Bruce Wayne," said Holmes. "Master Wayne, this is Chief Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard."

Bruce shook hands with the pale man.

"You would not mind if Bruce was to attend the event we spoke of?" asked Holmes.

"Of course, not, Holmes," said Chief Inspector Gregson. "Whatever you request. I will see you there?"

"Of course, Gregson," said Holmes. "Until then, I bid you _adieu_."

The two old men shook hands and the inspector made his exit.

"What was that all about?" inquired Bruce.

"Later," said Holmes. "First, to your chores."

Bruce wanted to argue, but he felt especially weary today. Holmes had been awake until at least 3:00 in the morning, perfecting one of Bach's concertos.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

That afternoon, while Bruce washed the dishes from lunch, Holmes spoke. Bruce wiped a plate clean and handed it to Holmes to dry.

"We'll be attending a gala event tomorrow night," said Holmes. "I'll provide you with appropriate attire, unless you've brought something of your own."

"A gala event?" asked Bruce. "What for?"

"You missed a spot!" proclaimed Holmes. "Detective work is about thoroughness." He handed the plate back to a very aggravated Bruce.

"What is the gala event?"

"It is the birthday of Lord Edward Porter, naval commander," said Holmes. "The American ambassador, Artemus Folger, is to present Lord Edward with a gift on behalf of his entire country."

Bruce handed the plate back to Holmes, who examined it carefully and then handed it back. Bruce groaned.

"Anyway," Holmes continued, "the Americans wish to impart this friendly gift on behalf of an alliance between our countries. Politics. Some have still remained enraged over our skirmish in the 1700's."

"You're referring to the Revolutionary War," said Bruce.

"You can call it that since your side won," said Holmes.

"Sore loser," mumbled Bruce. Holmes cleared his throat and Bruce shut his mouth.

"Chief Inspector Gregson suggested I attend the event since there is a certain opera singer who will be performing, and I've taken quite an interest in her career."

"What about the gift that the Americans are presenting to this Lord Porter?"

"A painting," said Holmes. "From an artist of some acclaim of your country's. A Mr. Phillip Patelli. I have heard some of his work described as rather vulgar and unrefined, but I'm sure his work has just been widely unappreciated across the globe on account of Mr. Patelli's still living. However, your countrymen seem to think highly enough of this Patelli to describe this work alone as worth a small fortune."

Bruce handed the plate once more to Holmes, who again examined it thoroughly.

"I suppose I'll just finish it myself," said Holmes. He then dipped his hands into the hot water and soap and ended the discussion.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The next evening, Bruce found himself accompanying Holmes to the private estate of Lord Edward Porter. It had been a long time since Bruce had dressed like a socialite, and he couldn't help but tug on his bowtie. Holmes, on the other hand, looked very much at ease in his tuxedo.

As Holmes and Bruce reunited with Chief Inspector Gregson, they were approached by a man who was balding and nearly bursting out of his too-tight extra-large tuxedo jacket. The man pumped Holmes' hand so vigorously that Bruce cringed, although Holmes himself remained quite emotionless.

"You must be the famous Sherlock Holmes," said the bald man in an accent Bruce recognized as his own. "I'm Artemus Folger."

"You've already met Chief Inspector Gregson, I'm sure," said Holmes. "And this is my imminent acquaintance, Bruce Wayne, of the Gotham City Waynes. Where is the painting?"

"You mean the Patelli?" Folger eagerly gestured to a wide wall which was empty except for a single piece of art. "The artist has titled it 'The Winged Demon.' You've been filled in on the details?"

"Don't worry, sir," said Holmes. "The chief inspector has given me all of the salient ones."

"I feel much better knowing you're here to take care of this matter," said the ambassador. "I'll leave you to your own devices."

Holmes and Bruce took a hard look at the painting. The palette was filled with blotches of dark blue, spattered with droplets of crimson red, and crisscrossed with lines of a drab yellow. A great blot of black paint was spread across the center of the chaos.

"Certainly abstract," commented Holmes.

"No," said Bruce, shaking his head. "Can't you see it? It's a painting of a vampire. A bat. Dripping innocent blood from its jaws as it flies across the night sky."

"That's certainly a melodramatic way of looking at it," said Holmes. "Why would the Americans give Lord Edward a painting of a vampire bat?"

"To call him a bloodsucker?" suggested Bruce.

"Mr. Holmes," said a distinctly feminine voice from behind. "I'm so glad you could come to witness my performance."

"Or prevent it," said Holmes, whirling to face the speaker. The woman was much older than Bruce but younger than Holmes. The make-up gave her face smoothness and a glow that made age hard to estimate. She had long, curly reddish-brown hair, full lips, and a body more voluptuous than was common for women of that age. "How nice to see you again, Ms. Adler."

"And who is this handsome young man?" questioned the woman. She looked at Bruce with sensuous eyes. Bruce felt a little uneasy, as if he had been lusting after a friend's mother, or worse, grandmother.

"This is Master Bruce Wayne," said Holmes. "Master Wayne, may I present Ms. Irene Adler, an operatic soprano of some note."

"So young," said Irene. "And so handsome. He reminds me of you when we first met, Mr. Holmes."

"We were just discussing the value of this painting," said Holmes. "Do you have any comment on it?"

"My knowledge of art doesn't extend far beyond auras," said Irene. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must prepare myself to provide the entertainment for this evening."

"Old friend of yours?" asked Bruce as Irene Adler walked away.

"More like an old enemy," said Holmes. "Besides the opera, her talents include extortion, espionage, theft, and forgery."

"Sounds like you admire her."

"Of course. In my opinion she is _the _woman. The woman who eclipses and predominates her entire gender."

Holmes removed a watch from his pocket and looked at the time.

"You have eleven minutes," he said.

"Eleven minutes until what?"

Holmes removed a long capsule from within his jacket and handed it to Bruce.

"This is a forgery of the Winged Demon," said Holmes. "I had some old allies of mine create one for me."

"How?" asked Bruce. "I thought this was the unveiling."

"Inspector Gregson was good enough to loan me the painting before the event," said Holmes. "I have arranged it that in exactly eleven minutes, the electricity will go out. You will then replace the painting with the forgery."

Bruce coughed.

"You will have exactly three minutes of pitch darkness before the lights come up again," said Holmes.

"Why me?"

"Because I've become arthritic in my old age. I'd never be able to switch the paintings without damaging something."

"But I'm not a sneak thief."

"I know. That's why I'm giving you three minutes. A professional would be able to perform the task in less than half the time. Consider this part of your training. You're slowly getting into the criminal's mind." He turned the intensity in his eyes up a notch as he looked at Bruce. "But not too slowly. You keep your eyes on the painting. I will keep mine on Ms. Adler."

Bruce tried to object, but he could only stammer and groan as Holmes walked away from him. Bruce just stood in front of the painting and began counting down minutes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The next six minutes were very dull. Ambassador Folger constantly walked by the painting, scrutinizing it as he went. He would introduce various diplomats from America and England as they made speeches and presentations in Lord Edward's honor. Finally, a warm, feminine voice added a spark of excitement to Bruce's evening.

"Do you come to these things often?"

Bruce turned his head just enough to see where the voice was coming from. He saw a pair of eyes similar to Irene Adler's, only they belonged to someone closer to Bruce's age. She was wearing a tight red dress that accentuated the shapeliest body Bruce had seen since leaving Gotham City. Long, wild, brown hair ran down the woman's back.

"More often than I'd like to," said Bruce. He turned his eyes back to the painting, but not without a considerable struggle.

"Sabrina Smith," said the young woman. She held out a hand.

"Bruce Wayne." He turned to Sabrina only long enough to kiss her hand.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Wayne?"

"As little as possible. You, Mrs. Smith?"

"Miss Smith. Sabrina, please. And I'm an actress."

The two discussed the painting. Bruce found it a natural topic since he wasn't taking his eyes off of it. Sabrina Smith grew bored after a few minutes and sauntered off. Bruce turned his head just long enough to watch the young woman walk away. He found it a very rewarding view.

Then the lights went out, and Bruce realized he had lost track of time. As quickly as possible, he walked towards the painting, stumbling and nearly falling as he went. He put his hands out and groped along the wall until he felt canvas. He could see the clock hands moving in his head.

He reached for the canvas and it fell with a crash. His whole body stiffened in the dark. There was a lot of movement and loud talking. Even panicking. The noise did nothing to calm Bruce's anxiety.

He opened Holmes' capsule and struggled to unroll the forgery in the dark. His hands were clumsy and he felt the lights had been off for much longer than three minutes by the time he had unrolled the forgery, rolled up the genuine painting, and made the switch.

He backed away from his poor excuse of handiwork. Then a hand darted out and grabbed the canister from him.

Bruce tried to grab it back as the lights came on. He found Sherlock Holmes standing beside him, his pipe clenched between his teeth.

"No good," said Holmes. "It seems someone beat us to the punch."

_**A/N – That's all for now, but expect the conclusion of this mystery in a week or less. If you have any idea what happened when the lights went out, feel free to suggest it in your review. **_


	4. The Case of the Winged Demon, Pt 2

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein._

**Thomas Thurman – _Glad you liked that last chapter. I hope you enjoy the conclusion as much as you did the set-up._**

**Lady Razorsharp – _Glad you're intrigued. When deciding on which characters from the worlds of Batman and Sherlock Holmes to include in this story, Irene Adler just seemed to stand out. I've got to take a look for myself at the Holmes/Adler relationship. _**

**Dreamsprite5 – _Glad you're still reading. Bruce's interpretation of the painting is simply to show that he's got "bats on the brain." His idea of the vampire dripping innocent blood from its mouth is to show Bruce Wayne's anger at the world and distrust of human beings in general, and that he still has frightening memories of stumbling into a bat cave as a boy._**

_**A/N – And now the conclusion to "The Case of the Winged Demon."**_

Bruce looked incredulous as Holmes led him into a small room. Inspector Gregson followed behind. Holmes opened the capsule and unrolled its contents onto a table.

"This is a forgery," he said. "And not a very good one, at that."

"That's impossible!" said Bruce.

"I assure you it's the truth," said Holmes. He began to point out several lines and curves on the painting, insisting they had not been there before.

"This is exactly what I had feared would happen," said Gregson.

"I hold myself personally responsible for this," said Holmes. "It seems I overestimated my young pupil. It seems he wasn't ready for such an important task."

"But I did exactly what you told me to!" insisted Bruce. "I didn't take my eyes off that painting. Not even for a second."

"Facts speak for themselves, Master Bruce Wayne. When I left you, the genuine painting was displayed in front of us. The painting you took down from the canvas ten minutes later was a fake."

"This is disastrous!" declared Gregson.

"Well, maybe I could have done more if you'd actually told me what was going on!" said Bruce.

"I told you exactly what you needed to know," said Holmes. "No more. No less."

"We received an anonymous letter at the Yard," said Gregson. "It informed us that a thief would infiltrate Lord Edward's party and steal the Patelli painting. I asked Holmes to do what he could to prevent the theft."

"And I asked Master Wayne to keep his eye on the painting while I kept my eyes on the guests," said Holmes. "Apparently, he couldn't even be trusted to do that."

"I swear to you, I never left that painting!" said Bruce. "No one could have stolen it. Not while I was standing there!"

"I'd hate to interrupt your arguing," said Gregson, "but something must be done here."

"Something will be done," said Holmes. "Stay calm. Do not alarm the guests. Bring me a list of those in attendance and I will instruct you to bring them back here for questioning one at a time."

Bruce sat down and looked into Holmes' eyes.

"I can't believe you don't trust me."

Holmes' eyes showed nothing but a steely gray. Bruce looked down at the table as Gregson reentered the room. The inspector handed a list to Holmes, who ran his index finger down it and then declared, "Bring me Miss Ruth Moore."

Gregson disappeared, only to return a minute later with a large woman who was as unpleasant to look at as Sabrina Smith had been pleasant. Holmes stood up and bowed courteously.

"How delightful to see you again, Ms. Moore," said Holmes. He turned to Bruce. "Ms. Ruth Moore is the gossip columnist for the Sussex Voice, and she has been a friend of mine in my retirement days. Ms. Moore, I assume you've done your share of mingling with our fellow guests this evening?"

"Of course, Sherlock. That is my job, after all."

"I've asked you in because I fear one of them may be a criminal. Have you met anyone suspicious this evening?"

"A few people, really," said Ruth. "First of all, there's Irene Adler, the famous opera diva. There seems to be something scandalous going on wherever she steps."

"I can attest to that fact," said Holmes, clenching his pipe between his teeth and striking a match up against it.

"Then there's Sabrina Smith, a young actress. She's got a wild spirit, Mr. Holmes. Mark my words. Finally, there's a Mr. Alen something. His last name escapes me."

"What can you tell me about this Alen something?" asked Holmes.

"He's very handsome," said Ruth. "Quite a charmer. Very young with a mustache and goatee. He doesn't quite seem to fit in with high society, though. It's as if he doesn't belong here."

Holmes thanked Ruth and the lady left the room.

"I talked to Sabrina Smith," said Bruce. "_While I was guarding the painting_."

"Is she an attractive woman?" asked Holmes.

"Yes," said Bruce. "Very attractive. Why?"

"Because if you noticed you obviously weren't keeping your eyes exclusively on the painting," said Holmes. Bruce groaned. "Let's meet this very attractive woman, Gregson."

Sabrina entered, looking slightly confused but not unhappy. Bruce was glad she was in the room. He was already sure she was better company than Holmes.

"It's really you?" she asked. "Sherlock Holmes? You're one of the world's greatest detectives!"

"If not _thee_," said Holmes. "But that's unimportant right now. I believe you've already met my friend, Bruce Wayne."

"I might have," she said, winking flirtatiously at Bruce.

"Miss Smith, the reason I've asked you in here is because a certain valuable object has been stolen."

"I knew something funny was going on when those lights went out," said Sabrina. "What was stolen?"

"A painting," said Holmes.

"The Winged Demon," said Sabrina. She looked down at the table. "Yet you have one in here. And there's one out there, too."

"How beautifully perceptive of you! But I'm afraid both are mere forgeries. Tell me, Miss Smith, what brings you here this evening?"

"I'm an actress," said Sabrina. "I was going to perform a Shakespearian monologue for Lord Edward."

"And I would suggest that you still do," said Holmes. "You are to act as if nothing has happened. As an actress you of course pay close attention to details. Have you seen anything that might be considered suspicious this evening?" Sabrina shook her head. "Let me rephrase that. You were admiring the painting shortly before the lights went out?"

"I wouldn't use the word 'admiring'," said Sabrina. "But Mr. Wayne and I were discussing it."

"Was anyone else there that you can recall?"

"No one memorable," said Sabrina. "Just some stuffed shirts and gowns. There was one man I remember. A very handsome, very exciting young man…"

"With a mustache and goatee whiskers," said Holmes. "Named Alen."

"How do you know that?" asked Sabrina. "You're psychic, aren't you?"

"Far from it, Ms. Smith. Merely observant. Did this Mr. Alen have a last name?"

"Golmer," said Sabrina. "Alen Golmer."

"Thank you. You'd better leave us in time to deliver your monologue."

Bruce welcomed the view of Sabrina's retreating figure even more than the last time. When he looked back at the table, Holmes looked cross.

"At least she has some powers of observation," he said.

"I know what I observed," said Bruce. "I never looked away from that painting. At least not long enough for anyone to steal it."

"Then you must have seen something, man!" cried Holmes.

Bruce shook his head.

"Somebody had to have stolen that painting while the lights were out."

"Impossible!" said Holmes. "A clever criminal plans out all details ahead of his crime. Turning out the lights would throw off his plan, not encourage it. Inspector Gregson, I would like to speak to Irene Adler now."

Irene Adler looked only at Holmes as she entered the room. Bruce noticed that Holmes swallowed hard. Holmes then asked Gregson and Bruce to leave him alone with the woman.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce began to follow Gregson back to the party, but when he was sure the inspector wasn't looking he rushed back to the door and leaned against it.

He was only able to hear a few phrases out of the conversation, but he found them telling enough.

"This has nothing to do with our past."

"This has everything to do with the past… You know it!"

"Despite our former meetings…"

"What we had…"

"I am not a man ruled by his passions."

"… Ruled by his passions."

Bruce heard footsteps approaching the door and backed away from it. Irene Adler finally stepped out.

"He wants to see you," she said to Bruce.

Bruce returned to the room. Gregson followed not long after.

"I think it's finally time we meet this Alen Golmer," said Holmes. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. "Chief Inspector, would you be as kind as to show him in?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes rose from his seat and waited. As soon as Alen Golmer entered the room and began to greet the occupants, Holmes leaned forward. Golmer could do nothing but stand in shock as Holmes took a firm grasp on his whiskers. When Holmes straightened his back, he was holding Golmer's mustache and goatee in his hand.

Gregson gasped.

"Presenting Mr. Alen Golmer," said Holmes. "Alias Elmer Logan."

"How did you know it was me?" asked Logan.

"Elementary," said Holmes. "I thought I recognized you earlier this evening, even with the false hair. Besides that, you were too clever for your own good. You should have never created your _nom de plume_ by anagramming your genuine name."

"You got me again, Mr. Holmes," said Logan. "But again you'll have to let me go. I didn't steal the Patelli."

"Then how did you know it was stolen?" asked Bruce.

"Somebody replaced the Patelli with a forgery before I could get my hands on it," said Logan. "I was looking at it a few minutes before the power outage. There were too many strokes that didn't need to be there. I knew it couldn't have been a genuine work of art."

Holmes sat back and puffed on his pipe.

"You admit you were planning on stealing the painting, then?"

"I'll admit anything you want. Except for actually stealing it. I found some bird in the crowd that agreed to create a diversion. A nice, plump one willing to do anything. She was going to fake a faint and I was going to snatch the painting while everyone was attending to her. But I went to look at the painting one more time before taking my move. Your friend here…" He indicated Bruce. "…Was discussing the painting with some fox."

"Ms. Smith, I take it?" said Holmes, turning to Bruce.

"I might have seen him there," said Bruce. "He wasn't doing anything to draw attention. I'm telling you, no one could have…"

Bruce stopped abruptly. Holmes had stopped looking at him and was instead studying Elmer Logan's disguise intently. Holmes then dropped the mustache on to the table and began rubbing his fingers. Bruce noticed a black smudge in Holmes' hand.

"What should I do with him, Holmes?" asked Gregson, grabbing firmly onto Logan's arm.

"Let him go, Gregson," said Holmes. "Logan, as much as I loathe admitting it, had nothing more to do with this crime than Irene Adler. I want to talk to Ambassador Folger now."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"What happened to the painting?" asked Bruce, after Gregson had left the room. He studied the painting in front of him, trying to figure out what Holmes had seen that was so wrong with it. "How do you know Alen Golmer, or whatever his name is, isn't lying? Why are you so sure Irene Adler had nothing to do with this?" Holmes said nothing. "Who stole the painting?"

"Ambassador Folger!" said Holmes heartily. Bruce looked up and saw Holmes and the large, bald man he had met earlier shaking hands again. Holmes explained the situation to the ambassador and asked him to take a seat.

"Take a seat?" said the ambassador, spit flying from his mouth. He removed a cigar from his jacket pocket and clenched it between his teeth. Holmes lit the ambassador's cigar and then relit his pipe. "How can I be expected to sit calmly while we have a crisis on our hands?"

"Don't worry," said Holmes. "I think this crisis can be averted. Shortly before the lights went out, a friend of mine studied the painting and found it to be a forgery. Ten minutes earlier, I studied the painting and felt certain it was the real thing."

"Then somebody stole the painting during those ten minutes?"

Holmes shook his head.

"Master Wayne was in front of the painting during those ten minutes. He assures me the painting was not taken during that time."

"I'm confused," said the ambassador. "When was the painting stolen, then?"

"It hasn't been stolen," said Holmes. "Not yet, anyway. The painting's right here."

He indicated the painting rolled out on the table. Bruce, Folger, and Gregson all looked at Holmes in utter confusion. Holmes picked up the mustache that was lying besides the painting.

"In a manner of speaking, someone applied a disguise similar to this one to the painting. I see you still don't understand. When I looked at the painting, I stained my hand with charcoal. Someone applied temporary markings that would cause the Winged Demon to appear as a forgery. The painting could easily be restored, however.

"Ambassador, you knew the exact program for the evening. You knew when the attention of the crowd would be diverted. It was easy for you to get close to the painting and, as the evening progressed, add artificial flaws to it. At the end of this night, you were planning on taking Lord Edward aside and telling him that his painting had been replaced with a forgery. You would then replace his painting with a more realistic forgery, restore the original painting, and sell it for a small fortune's worth of cash."

The fear in Folger's eyes told Gregson and Bruce that everything Holmes had said had been true. In one swift move, Folger grabbed the painting, turned, and lunged for the door, tripping over Bruce's recently extended leg as he did so. Everything in the room shook when the large man hit the ground.

"That's attempted theft, isn't it?" said Bruce.

"Diplomatic immunity," moaned Folger.

"But the crisis can still be averted," said Holmes. "The painting is to be restored immediately. At the end of the evening, the forgery will be replaced by the genuine article, by you, Gregson."

Folger looked with hatred at Holmes as he returned to the event outside of the door. Holmes rose and emptied what was left in his pipe.

"Then I was right," said Bruce. "No one took the painting while I was standing there."

"You were," said Holmes. "You did an admirable job."

Now Bruce looked at Holmes with hatred.

"As a gentlemen, I will admit that your observations were correct," said Holmes. "Now, let's not get hung up on trifles."

"No," said Bruce dryly. "Let's not."

_"I suppose he's going to expect an apology now_," though Holmes. _"He's going to be impossible to live with."_

_**A/N – And so ends Bruce and Sherlock's first case together, but they'll have many more to come. Unfortunately, I can't promise frequent updates. In fact, updates will probably be very infrequent since I'll be starting my sophomore year of college and will be very busy. But I'll add other cases when I get the chance, and I'll never leave you hanging in the middle of a mystery. Not for long, anyway.**_


	5. Case of the Celebrity Impersonator, Pt 1

_Disclaimer – I own no rights to the world of Sherlock Holmes or Batman, or to any related characters. This is merely a tribute to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to DC Comics._

**Baka Gaijin30**** – _I too have seen, and enjoyed, "The Seven Percent Solution." In fact, that was the reason I included the bust of Sigmund Freud in Holmes' study back in Chapter 2. I'll assume Holmes broke his addiction as he did in 7. There will be references to the addiction, of course. But it's not going to be a major part of the plot._**

**Unseen Watche – _I also find your pen name "scary but intriguing." Hope you enjoy the things to come._**

_**A/N – I'm back. I promised you I would be eventually. **_

_**To paraphrase Mark Twain, "Forgive this long chapter, for I had no time to write a shorter one."**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**_The Case of the Celebrity Impersonator"_**

Archie and Jack were two young boys who would never forget the day they saw Sherlock Holmes.

Another boy, most likely a wealthy, stuck-up brat, had trashed a perfectly good ball, and Archie and Jack were lucky enough to find it while searching for their breakfast.

An Inverness cape floated past Jack. The boy looked up to see a gaunt man wearing the cape. A deerstalker was perched on the gaunt man's head, and a Calabash pipe was hanging from his mouth.

The ball hit Jack in the head.

"Hey! What'd you do that for?"

"You should 'ave caught it!" snapped Archie.

"Do you know who just walked by?" asked Jack. "That was 'im!"

" 'im who?"

"Just come on and follow me!"

The two boys ran down the street, meeting disgust and disdain as they ran past the better off ladies and gentlemen along the street.

Sure enough, a man in an Inverness cape was walking ahead of them.

"Let's follow 'im!" said Archie.

The two boys followed the cape from the city into the country.

"It does look just like 'im," admitted Archie. "But I thought he lived on Baker Street."

"He's retired now, you little fool," said Jack. "I 'eard he was livin' as a beekeeper in Sussex."

"Do you think it's really 'im?"

"Has to be. Who else'd dress like that? And look! There's the bees."

The man in the cloak and deerstalker was, in fact, walking past a series of beehives and entering a country house. The boys waited until the man had entered the house and closed the door behind him before opening the picket fence and running in to the yard for themselves.

"Wa's he doing, you s'pose?" asked Jack.

"He's obviously taking care of some very serious detective business upstairs," said Archie. He pointed to a second floor window, where a figure in deerstalker and cloak was grabbing hold of the curtains and drawing them closed.

"C'mon!" commanded the ever-courageous Archie. "I'm sure he's got a back window."

The two boys ran into the back yard. A rather large oak tree was growing right outside of a second story window, behind which the curtains had yet to be drawn. Jack, not being much of a climber, was reluctant at first, but Archie finally convinced him, under threat of violence, to begin his ascent.

The two boys looked through the glass window. They could see several pieces of mail suspended to the wall with a jackknife. The man in the deerstalker was pacing around the room. The pipe in his mouth wobbled up and down as the man spoke, still keeping the pipe clenched tightly between his teeth. Another man stepped in front of the window. His appearance wasn't nearly as memorable as that of the great detective.

The man in the Inverness cloak removed his deerstalker, threw it on the ground, and began to stomp on it emphatically.

Then the other man lifted a vase.

_CRASSSHHH!_

The vase broke into several small pieces in the air. Blood splattered against the window. Sherlock Holmes fell to the floor.

The other man was preoccupied with examining the body of the man on the floor. He didn't seem to noticed Jack and Archie, who quickly ducked out of view.

"Should we tell a copper?" asked Jack.

"No," said Archie. "Let's just get out of here."

They intended to live the rest of their life carrying a terrible secret. They had witnessed the murder of Sherlock Holmes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_" 'Onomatopoeia' refers to a word which both resembles and indicates a sound, such as…"_

_Phhtwack! _Sherlock Holmes shoved the blade of the jackknife deep into the wall, a series of unopened envelopes in front of it. The hair on the back of Bruce Wayne's neck stood on end.

"Couldn't you just burn the mail you don't read?"

"You disapprove of my habit?" said Holmes.

"I disapprove of loud noises while I'm trying to study," said Bruce. "You're disturbing me."

"What are you studying now?" asked Holmes.

"The Brittany Tyler case," said Bruce.

"I feel sorry for you, then," said Holmes. "It was a rather dull case, involving language arts and poetry much more often than science. I had to acquaint myself with all sorts of linguistic terms and poetic tools."

"I find it fascinating," said Bruce, more than a small amount of spite in his voice. "What about the mail? Cases you refuse to take?"

"Occasionally," replied Holmes. "Mostly fanmail."

"Fanmail?"

"Letters from fanatics," said Holmes. "Insipid writers who want to be my friends, who tell me how much they admire my methods, who want to know aspects of my personal life."

"Why don't you just write them back?" said Bruce. "After all, it's the fans who pay the…" He stopped. "Not in this business, I guess."

"Not at all," said Holmes. "If I were an actor or a professional musician, I would find these letters flattering. As things are, I'd prefer to be left alone to remain focused on my own business."

Holmes began to look over the mail remaining.

"Hmm. Interesting," said Holmes. "A letter from Dr. Watson."

Bruce was shocked. From what his host had told him, Bruce had believed that Dr. Watson was dead. As he looked over Holmes shoulder, he noticed that the envelope was addressed from a "J. Watson."

He was about to ask Holmes for more details, but he was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

"I'll get it," groaned Bruce, before Holmes could make it an order.

Chief Inspector Gregson, whom Bruce had recently made the acquaintance of, entered. He muttered a greeting towards Bruce and then raced towards Holmes.

"Excuse me for barging in like this, Holmes," said Gregson. "But there's been a little incident not far from here, and I think you might want to take a look at it for yourself."

"I'm quite sure you can manage on your own, Gregson. If you keep dragging me along to your work, a rumor will circulate that I'm not really retired."

"I wouldn't normally ask you, but this case is… bizarre. Well, not so much bizarre as, I think it concerns you. You'll just have to see for yourself."

The Inspector looked paler than usual. His eyes were pleading. He looked frustrated and helpless.

"Just take a look," he asked.

"Very well," said Holmes with a sigh. "Come, Master Wayne. Consider this an object lesson."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes and Bruce slid into the back seat of Gregson's automobile and soon arrived at a large country house. They passed a white picket fence, they passed bee hives, and they climbed up a flight of stairs to a study.

They were greeted by the sight of a trim figure in a dress suit. The figure was bent over, suit pants stretched tight against a magnificent posterior, floating above two thin, shapely legs.

_"Either that's a woman_," thought Bruce, _"or I'm getting my head examined."_

The figure straightened up and turned around. Much to Bruce's relief, she was a woman. Blonde hair hung down to her shoulders and bangs ended just above her deep blue eyes. She smiled. A delicious smile. For a brief moment, Bruce thought the smile was for him.

"Uncle Sherlock!"

The moment ended. The young blonde ran up to Holmes and embraced him. Bruce could see a body lying in the spot the girl had left, but he turned away from it. The live woman interested him more than the dead man. She was chattering excitedly with Holmes.

"This is my friend Bruce Wayne," said Holmes, gesturing towards Bruce. "Mr. Wayne, may I present Dr. Jamie Watson, M. E."

"There's a lot of blood," said Gregson. "Dr. Watson, I'm sorry…"

"I had to see this?" finished the doctor. "Don't worry, Inspector. I've spent most of my life studying blood. You don't need to worry just because I'm a woman."

"Definitely a woman," muttered Bruce.

It wasn't until Dr. Watson looked at him that Bruce realized he had spoken aloud. Dr. Watson's expression turned all business.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Wayne," said the doctor, shaking Bruce's hand.

"Mr. Holmes must have mentioned you," said Bruce. "I just though he was talking about a different Watson."

"John Hamish Watson," said the blonde. "My father. I'm the result of his marriage to his second wife."

Bruce turned to Holmes, who was now studying the corpse on the floor. Bruce walked over and was surprised to see an Inverness cape flowing across the floor, covered in blood, a deerstalker lying nearby. For the first time, Bruce really paid attention to the room around him. A large jackknife was protruding from the wall next to a chart of dancing men.

Bruce looked down at the corpse again.

"It's you!" he exclaimed.

"Certainly not," said Holmes. "He has a pug nose. Also, note the cheap, imitation material used in his outfit. Also his pipe tobacco. It's a cheap, generic brand. I'd quit the habit before smoking such tobacco. This man is nothing like me at all."

Holmes raised the man's sleeve.

"You'll also notice the lack of needle marks."

"His name was Robert Smith," said Gregson. "He went by Bob, when he wasn't going by Sherlock."

Holmes snorted as he flipped through the pages of a book by Arthur Conan Doyle, one of several on the dead man's shelf.

"I can see what you meant by bizarre," said Holmes.

"Not too bizarre, though," said Gregson. "There are a lot of people like Smith out there. Just a week ago we looked at the suicide of a woman who claimed to be Queen Victoria."

"That's weird," said Bruce.

"It gets odder," said Gregson. "She was married to a man who claimed to be William Shakespeare. He swept her off of her feet with his love sonnets."

Another man entered the room. He was tall and slender, yet distinguished, with graying black hair. He looked at the odd assortment of characters in the room, his eyes stopping at Jamie.

"What's a woman doing in here?" demanded the newcomer.

"This is Dr. Watson," said Gregson. "She's with us. This is Mr. Allan Gates."

"And who is this?" asked Gates, turning to Holmes.

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Is it really?" asked Gates incredulously. "The real Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I'm sorry, but poor Bob made it seem like he was."

"He was really convinced that he was him?" asked Bruce, gesturing from the body to Holmes.

"Oh, no," said Gates. "At least, he knew he wasn't born Sherlock Holmes. One day he just got tired of being Bob Smith and decided to be the great Sherlock Holmes instead. It's a miracle he never lost his job as a banker. He'd wear that deerstalker to work. It would make some of the patrons nervous."

"They still let him keep the job?" said Bruce.

"Yes. It turns out many of the men he made nervous had been plotting bank robberies. The bank promised they'd keep him employed as long as he promised not to smoke that ridiculous pipe of his in public."

Holmes leered at Gates as he took his own pipe from his pocket and placed it between his teeth.

"No offense," Gates quickly added.

"He was able to afford this place as a banker?" said Bruce.

"Hardly," said Gates. "I own this place. And the place next door. As a matter of fact, I live in the place next door."

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Gates?" asked Holmes.

"I design typewriters," said Gates. "Or rather, I used to. Now I own a company that designs and produces typewriters. Revolutionary typewriters ahead of their time. Very high in technology."

"You were Mr. Smith's neighbor?" said Bruce.

"And brother-in-law," said Gates. "That's why I let him live in this house. I offered to find psychological help for him, but Cathy, my wife, said it was a harmless hobby. She loved her brother in spite of everything."

"Would you mind telling Mr. Holmes how you discovered the body?" asked Gregson.

"Bob called me and asked me to come visit him. Told me to come at quarter past noon. He was like this when I found him."

"That will be all," said Gregson. "You may go now if you'd like Mr. Gates."

Holmes stopped Gates before he could walk out the door. He pulled a long hair off the other man's collar.

"Blonde," he observed.

"It must be Cathy's," said Gates. "Good day, Mr. Holmes."

Gates paused in the doorway.

"Funny," he said. "Bob always asked that I say that to him."

Bruce turned his gaze from Gates to the body. He looked at the wall behind him and then jumped back.

"What the Heck…?"

"I thought you'd be most interested in that, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson.

Holmes looked at the wall behind the body. His eyes showed a quick spark of emotion and then died down into indifference. He looked as though it wasn't something he hadn't seen before. In fact, it wasn't.

"What's it mean?" asked Bruce.

He was answered only by silence.

Smears of blood crossed the wall and formed the scarlet letters R-A-C-H-E.

"I got it," Bruce continued. "It stands for Rachel. I knew a Rachel once."

Holmes turned to Gregson.

"Doesn't he bare a striking resemblance to our old friend Lestrade?"

He turned to Bruce.

"Not that that's necessarily a negative thing. Lestrade was a solid professional. He just lacked any sort of imagination. Or, on occasion, he possessed it in too great of quantities."

"_ 'Rache' _is 'revenge' in German," said Jamie Watson.

"I encountered this writing before," said Holmes. "In one of my earliest cases. The same word, in the same shade of scarlet, on a very similar wall. Is there anything else you'd like to draw to my attention, Gregson?"

The Chief Inspector shook his head.

"Then I'd very much like to go now," said Holmes.

"I'll drive you back. Good day, Dr. Watson."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes was visibly shaken, though he tried not to show it. Bruce noticed he was trembling as they sat down.

As they were leaving the house, an arrow shot through the air. The head and shaft broke through the window, the feathers catching on the glass. The tip of the head pointed at the tip of Holmes' prominent nose.

Bruce grabbed the shaft and felt a piece of paper wrapped around it. He removed the paper and unrolled it, showing the lettering inside to Holmes.

The simple word "_Rache_" was written in big, black letters.

Bruce saw a lump rise in Holmes' throat. The great detective looked out the window. He saw a stout man covered in dirt leering back.

"Take us home, Gregson," he requested.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes entered his own home, followed by Bruce Wayne. Holmes immediately lit his pipe.

"I think this may be a three pipe case," he said calmly. "Maybe even a four-piper."

"I don't see anything that difficult about it," said Bruce.

Holmes ignored him.

"What I can't figure out is why anyone would want to kill Mr. Smith."

"Come on, Great Detective!" cried Bruce. "I know that arrow made it perfectly clear to you. Whoever killed Smith really wanted to kill you."

Holmes took a long drag from his pipe.

"What about this earlier case of yours?" asked Bruce. "With the writing in blood? Tell me about it."

"It was a murder," said Holmes.

"Who was behind it?"

"I've forgotten."

"Like Hell you have!" said Bruce. He grabbed the stack of papers he had been studying from a table nearby. "It must be in Watson's accounts somewhere. What did he call it?"

"A Something-or-Other in Crimson, I believe," said Holmes.

Bruce eagerly flipped through page after page, but couldn't find anything.

"Wait!" Holmes declared suddenly. "That was the name the magazines gave it. Watson called it 'A Tangled Skein.' And the killer's name was Jefferson Hope."

"Where is he now?"

"Quite dead," said Holmes. "Complications with an aneurism before he could even go to trial."

"Did he have any realatives?"

"Not as I recall."

Holmes extinguished his pipe and sat down.

"I'd like to go over the house where Smith was killed more carefully," he said. "I believe I should after I've had time to digest the details."

"I don't think you should leave this place."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Someone out there obviously wants you dead. It's not safe for you. Let Gregson work this out."  
"And be a prisoner in my own home in the meantime?"

"You've been living like a hermit for years. It didn't bother you before."

"Young man, just because I chose not to leave my household doesn't mean I didn't value the freedom to. I'm going to see to it personally that I clear this little matter up."

"Then I'll go with you," said Bruce. "To protect you."

"To protect me?"

"I've started learning to fight. I plan on learning all 127 major combat styles."

"How many have you learned so far?"

"Two or three," said Bruce.

Holmes gave him his most piercing look.

"Okay. Two."

"I was going to bring you with me anyway," said Holmes. "Not for protection. Because you need the extra study time."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When the two returned to the house that had been occupied by Robert Smith, they found Allan Gates standing outside with a tall, platinum blonde woman, in her late forties, but still very attractive. Gates introduced the blonde as his wife, Cathy Gates. Cathy's attractive face was flawed by red eyes with heavy bags underneath, the result of prolonged sobbing.

Holmes asked Gates for permission to examine his property, and Gates consented.

Holmes entered the house and returned to the room Smith's body had been found in. Bruce carefully studied everything, and he was ashamed he was unable to find anything significant. He felt better when he realized Holmes didn't seem to be having any more luck than he was.

Holmes then led Bruce to the backyard. Holmes merely glanced at the ground and pointed out a series of footprints to Bruce.

"Young men," said Holmes. "Two of them. Both under ten years of age. Very poor, probably homeless. Note how one set is made by bare feet while the other seems to be made by shoes missing several sections of their soles."

Holmes opened his cloak, revealing a series of test tubes. He removed one and opened the lid.

"This formula…" he began.

"Creates a plaster," said Bruce. "One that can be poured as a liquid but will harden in about an hour's time. I was somewhat of a chemistry whiz at Gotham University."

"Really?" said Holmes. "I'll have to allow you to assist me in my experiments sometime."

The two followed the footprints to a large tree. Holmes looked towards the top and then turned to Bruce.

"Climb it," he instructed him.

"Why me?"

"Because I'm obviously much too old to be climbing trees."

Bruce leapt into the air and caught a branch. He swung himself to another branch, and then leapt to another. In a series of swings and leaps and bounds he made it to the top, in only a matter of seconds.

"You're very agile and graceful," said Holmes.

"Thanks," replied Bruce. "It's a gift."

"You'll have to do it again," said Holmes. "Unfortunately, you must assume you do not have that gift. You must assume you are a very small child and that you can only move among the branches that are very close to each other."

Bruce groaned and made his way back to the bottom of the tree.

"As you climb this time," said Holmes, "carefully examine every branch you touch."

"Are you sure you don't want to do this?"

"Physically impossible."

Bruce climbed the tree again, this time taking several minutes to reach the top.

"I find nothing."

Holmes rested his chin in his hand for a brief moment. He then called up.

"Examine the wall of the house."

Bruce didn't need to look very long. There were dirty smudges below the ledge of the window.

"Fingerprints, I think," he called down.

"How are you at catching things?"

A bag shot through the air. As Bruce swung his hands out and grabbed it, a white powder flew in the air, causing Bruce to sneeze.

"What'd you do that for?"

"Fingerprinting dust," said Holmes. "Apply some to the wall."

Holmes then tossed Bruce a notebook and a roll of tape. He slowly instructed Bruce on how to remove fingerprints. Bruce removed several but then had to stop. He swung himself beneath a branch, suspending himself in the air just below the window's ledge.

"Someone's coming," said Bruce.

"Hurry down!"

Bruce made it down several branches before the window opened. An arrow flew through the air. Bruce jumped out of the tree and tackled Holmes to the ground. A second arrow flew right over them.

The first had struck Holmes in the shoulder.

Bruce looked back towards the window. It was now closed.

"You need a doctor," Bruce said.

Bruce saw the stout man that had leered at him the other day approaching.

"Help me!" he called.

The man just looked down at Holmes and spit in his face.

Bruce quickly jumped up and threw his fist into the stout man's face. The stout man responded by grabbing Bruce's arm and twisting it behind his back. Bruce fought back tears. He felt certain the man had dislocated his shoulder. Then he watched the man walk away.

_**A/N – The conclusion will be coming soon. In the meantime, let me know what you thought of this chapter.**_


	6. Case of the Celebrity Impersonator, Pt 2

Disclaimer - I own no legal rights to Sherlock Holmes or Batman/Bruce Wayne, nor to any other related characters and materials.

**L Moonshade – _I'm glad you say I have a way with mysteries, since some day, I hope to move beyond fanfics and make a living writing them._**

**Dreamsprite5 – _Thank you for your review. I'm having fun figuring out how Holmes and Bruce are alike, and how they're different, as I write._**

**A/N – _I've also had a lot of reviewers compliment me on the way I portray the relationship between Holmes and Bruce. Thank you, very much. I'm glad to know I'm doing something right, because the relationship is definitely the most important part of this fanfic._**

**_I saw _"Batman Begins" _for the second time about a week ago. It reminded me of the feelings I want to (attempt to) evoke and directions I want to take with this effort. I hope to give my stories a little bit of a harder edge and a darker tone as I go, but I can't promise too much. I don't know if you can tell, but I like to write with my tongue firmly in my cheek._**

**_I got the idea for this specific case from one of those Internet profile websites. I was surprised to learn that there are several people who create fictional profiles for famous people. There are several profiles made by people claiming to be celebrities, historical figures, and even fictional characters. Some of these "famous people" like attention are more than happy to take comments and messages from fans, while others will only consort with other "famous people." The information found in the profiles can be found on any fan site. But, while it seems impossible to believe someone famous would take the time to set up an online profile, you can never be absolutely positive it isn't really them._**

_**If you've created such a site, no offense. In fact, thanks for the idea.**_

**_I was able to find plenty of profiles for Batman, his friends and foes, and even, as pertains to our story, Sherlock Holmes himself. With this inspiration, all that was left was avoiding resembling certain episodes of _"CSI" _and _"Murder, She Wrote"**

"This isn't easy for me," said Dr. Watson as she finished bandaging Holmes' shoulder. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been called to practice on a _live_ human being?"

Holmes looked up with glazed eyes halfway between sleep and awake.

"How come you looked at his shoulder so much longer than mine?" asked Bruce.

"Yours was barely even sprained," said Jamie. "Stop being a little girl."

Bruce looked at the table nearby Holmes. The arrow that had been impaled through his shoulder was lying there. Next to it was a much smaller object. Bruce studied it and found it to be a small, round, brown button.

"It was caught by a thread to the shaft of the arrow," explained Jamie.

She looked at the bloodied bandages.

"Who did this?"

"I don't know," said Bruce. "But I'm going to find out."

He grabbed his coat and moved towards the door.

"Stay with him," he said to Jamie. "I don't think he's safe alone."

"I'm a babysitter now?" complained Dr. Watson.

"You're a doctor, aren't you?" said Bruce. "So was my father. If I remember correctly, your creed it to help people."

Jamie sighed in defeat.

"I knew it," said Bruce. "I never forget."

"Shouldn't you let the police handle this," said Jamie. "Do you really think you can handle yourself as an amateur detective?"

"It can't be that hard," said Bruce. He pointed at Holmes. "_He _does it."

At this, Holmes stirred and lifted his head.

"I'm not an amateur," he said. "I'm a professional, and this is my case."

Jamie pressed his unharmed shoulder back down.

"You're in no condition to go anywhere," she said. "Not with that shoulder."

"And not with a maniac who's already shot three arrows at you," added Bruce.

"A guy who thinks he's Sherlock Holmes killed by a guy who thinks he's Robin Hood," Jamie remarked.

"He makes a pretty crappy Robin Hood," said Bruce. "He's only hit one time out of three, and it wasn't fatal."

"Pencil and paper!" Holmes screamed, waving his arms madly in the air. Jamie quickly pulled a pad and pencil from a nearby desk. Holmes began scribbling furiously.

"If you're going out," said Holmes, "collect the plasters we made. Take them and the fingerprints, along with these instructions, to the address I give you."

Bruce walked to Holmes and collected the sheet Holmes tore from the pad.

Bruce turned to Jamie.

"You're a doctor," he said. "You know things. Something's been bugging me about this case. Can you tell me what makes a man dress up like something he's not?"

"I'm not a doctor of psychology," said Jamie. "But if I had to guess, I'd say the man feels his life lacks excitement. Or purpose. Or both. Rather than finding those things for himself, he pretends to be someone that already has them. Do you understand me?"

Bruce just looked into her brown eyes and nodded.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When Bruce came back to the Gates property, he found Cathy sitting in front, her eyes still red and moist. She was obviously still grieving. Bruce didn't blame her.

He still cried for his loved ones.

"We've met before," said Bruce. "I'm Bruce Wayne. I work for Sherlock Holmes, the detective."

Cathy tilted her head weakly.

"You must miss him a lot," said Bruce.

"Every second," said Cathy. "I just can't see why anyone would kill Robert. Everyone loved him. Even my husband's upset that Robert's gone, and my brother annoyed him more than anyone else."

"Your brother invited your husband over to his home on the day he was killed," said Bruce. "Quarter past twelve. Any idea why?"

"It wasn't quarter past twelve."

"No," said Bruce. "I'm sure your husband said…"

"Bob asked Allan to meet him at twelve exactly," said Cathy. "I took the call."

Bruce offered more condolences and then made his way to the backyard of the murder house.

Bruce was immediately met by the gardener. He didn't look happy to see Bruce. Needless to say, Bruce wasn't any happier to see him.

"I'm investigating a murder," said Bruce. "And I'm trying to figure out who hurt my teacher. What's your name?"

"Bug off!" said the gardener.

"I want answers!" said Bruce.

"But I don't wanna give 'em out to you. One good reason why I should?"

Bruce raised his fists.

"I want a fair fight after what you did to my shoulder."

The gardener snickered.

"You don't give up, do you?"

"I'm kind of used to getting what I want," said Bruce.

The gardener snickered.

"Name's Denton Rogers," he said. "And Sherlock 'Olmes is no friend of mine."

"What do you have against him?"

"Put me in the pen, he did. Right behind bars. Just for some petty thievin'. Luckily, they let me off for good behavior, and I got a job here."

"From Gates?"

"From Smith," said Denton. "Or from 'Olmes, as 'e made me call 'im. Said 'e's put me away and now 'e wanted to 'elp me on to the straight and narrow path."

"But he hadn't put you away," said Bruce.

"Of course 'e 'adn't," said Denton. "But 'e wanted me to pretend like 'e was the real Sherlock 'Olmes. O' course I only pretended to, 'cause if I'd really believe it, 'e would 'ave 'ad a broken nose and I'd be out of a job and back in the pen."

"Someone shot an arrow at the real Holmes last time we were here."

"Well, it wasn't me," said Denton. "I'm fully rehabilitated now. On the straight and narrow path."

Another man came from the back door of the murder house. Bruce looked on in shock.

"Who are you?" he demanded as the man came forward.

"I'm the new tenant," said the man. "My name is Jefferson Hope."

Bruce was too stunned to do anything but offer the man his hand. As they shook, Bruce got a look at the cuffs of the other man's sleeve. One button, one small, round, brown button, was missing.

"I've heard your name before," said Bruce. "In the newspaper, I think."

"You're probably thinking of my uncle," said Jefferson. "The black sheep of the family. He was arrested for murder and died tragically in prison."

"You're aware that there was a murder committed in your new home only a few days ago?"

Jefferson shook his head.

"Mr. Gates never told me that," he said. "He just said he had a house for sale."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce bid farewell to Denton and Jefferson, telling them he must be going, and collected the plasters from the ground. He then caught a train to London.

The address Holmes had given Bruce was for a small building at the end of Baker Street in London. There was no sign of life inside. The doors were locked and a sign read "Closed."

Bruce found an open window and carefully placed his parcel inside.

He took one last look at the building as he stepped back from it.

"William Wiggins Detective Agency."

Bruce took a cab from there to Scotland Yard. He told Chief Inspector Gregson about his encounter with the young Jefferson Hope. He declared with total conviction that Jefferson Hope had killed Bob Smith. Gregson told Bruce that his theory was an interesting one but that he could not get a warrant for arrest on such scanty evidence.

Bruce's cab was gone when he came out of Scotland Yard. He couldn't find a new one so he began to walk.

At the end of the street, Bruce noticed an old beggar with long, stringy hair and a tattered black and yellow blanket wrapped around him. The man was looking right at Bruce. Bruce began to walk a little faster.

The old man seemed to be keeping a steady pace. Maybe Bruce was just feeling a little nervous. When he turned the corner, the old man followed.

Bruce began to walk faster. He twisted and turned down corner after corner. The old man stayed at his heel.

Bruce ran as fast as he could down an alleyway. He squeezed between two buildings and grabbed an empty bottle he found lying on the ground nearby.

Bruce raised the bottle when he saw the old man enter the alleyway.

"Put that glass down!" ordered a familiar voice.

The bottle crashed to pieces at Bruce's feet. Sherlock Holmes removed his disguise.

"I thought you were staying back at your home!" said Bruce. "Dr. Watson was supposed to watch you!"

"Dr. Watson was called away to work," said Holmes. "I assured her I'd be fine on my own."

"You're not safe out here!"

"But of course I am. You couldn't recognize me in this disguise. How do you expect my enemy to? Especially if he was daft enough to mistake Smith for me? Come. We'll discuss your efforts today back in Sussex."

Bruce told Holmes about his encounters with Hope and Gregson. Holmes chuckled the whole way through, guffawing at the end.

"Of course Gregson couldn't get a warrant," said Holmes. "That theory is hogwash."

"Why?"

"First, we must return to London and check at the detective agency. Then we'll have a talk with Gregson and Hope. I assume the latter will tell you why your theory is so absurd."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes and Bruce returned to the tiny building on Baker Street. Holmes, wearing his deerstalker and cloak, knocked and a man in his late thirties or early forties stepped out. He had blonde hair and was extremely tall and skinny. He smiled heartily and pumped Holmes' hand.

"Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"Wiggins, this is Bruce Wayne. Mr. Wayne, this is William Wiggins, the captain of the Baker Street Irregulars."

"Oh, we're quite regulars now, Mr. Holmes," said Wiggins. "Several of the boys work for my agency. We have you to thank for the inspiration. You taught us we could make a prettier penny catching crooks than picking pockets."

"Still, am I not right that your agency consults a set of Baker Street Irregulars of your own?" said Holmes. "A network of pint-sized spies and street urchins?"

"Quite correct, as always, Mr. Holmes," said Wiggins. "The two you're interested in are waiting inside."

Two young boys were anxiously fidgeting and tapping their tiny feet inside Wiggins' office.

"Meet Jack and Archie Anspaugh," said Wiggins.

"'Ow nice to see you, sir," said Jack. "Glad you ain't dead."

"You two boys were outside of the residence of one Robert Smith," said Holmes.

"Who's that?" asked Archie. "Jack and I ain't never 'eard of 'im."

"He often dressed like me," said Holmes. "With a cape and a deerstalker?"

The boys looked at him, clueless.

"A hat like this," said Holmes, removing the deerstalker from his head and showing it to the youngsters.

"Ohh!" Jack and Archie chorused.

""Ere's the thing, sir," said Archie. "We's gots to take care of ourselves and our family. 'Ow's we s'pposed to do that if we upset some crazed killer?"

"You needn't worry about that, boys," said Holmes. "If any question of your safety should arise, my friend Mr. Wayne will protect you."

Holmes looked at Bruce. In answer, Bruce stepped forward and flexed his biceps.

"He knows 127 ways of fighting," said Holmes.

Archie and Jack looked at each other and then around the room. Finally, Jack began to stammer.

"I thought I saw you, sir," said Jack. "I followed you – well, the man I thought was you – to the 'ouse. Then Archie suggested we climb that tree."

Archie hit Jack.

"Well, it's true!"

"It is, sir," said Archie. "We saw the man we were following. Then another fellow came in and 'it Sherlock 'Olmes – I mean…"

"Robert Smith," offered Holmes.

"'It Bob Smith over the head," said Archie. "Jack and I were too scared to stay there so we ran aw'y."

"Can you tell me what this man looked like?" asked Holmes.

"'E wasn't very distinctive, sir," said Jack.

"'E was thin and tall," said Archie. "And very finely dressed. Must 'ave been quite rich."

"Would you know this man if you saw him again?"

Both boys expressed that they weren't sure. Holmes showed the boys a newspaper. They eagerly began to point and nod and yell that they saw the man.

Holmes thanked Wiggins and the boys and left.

Archie and Jack were two young boys who would never forget the day they saw Sherlock Holmes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

After leaving the detective's office, Holmes showed Bruce the newspaper. The headline ran, "Allan Gates: Typewriter Tycoon."

Bruce couldn't believe it. He tried to press Holmes for more details, but Holmes refused to speak until they'd met with Gregson and arrived at Allan Gate's property. They knocked on Jefferson Hope's door.

"What's this about?" Jefferson asked.

"Jefferson Hope, my name is Sherlock Holmes."

"It's an honor to meet you," said Jefferson, grinning and taking Holmes' hand. "I've read all of the stories about you in the paper. You've put a lot of criminals behind bars."

"Yes," said Holmes. "One of them was your uncle."

Jefferson was stunned. Like Jack and Archie, he began to stammer.

"I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't," said Holmes. "Because Jefferson Hope wasn't really your uncle."

The man sighed heavily.

"There's no fooling you," he said. "My name is Jeffery Pope."

"Why did you lie about who you were?" asked Bruce.

"Gates told me to," said Pope. "I didn't ask why. I needed a place to live, and he offered me this lovely house. He gave it to me for a very affordable price, too. He said the only condition was that, while here, I tell everyone that my name is Jefferson Hope, that I had an uncle of the same name who was a murderer, and that he died in jail. He said I could say anything else in public, but when talked to here I was to be who he said I was."

"You didn't find this strange?" said Gregson.

"Of course I did," said Pope. "But I didn't see any harm in it. I really wanted the house."

"And it was Allan Gates that instructed you to do this?"

"Yes, sir."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The trio of detectives walked next door and pounded on the door. They then demanded to speak with Allan Gates.

"What's all of this about?" asked Gates.

"Murder," replied Holmes. He turned to Bruce. "This is why your theory was ridiculous. No one who wanted revenge on me that badly would kill Smith instead of me. He may have wanted to resemble me, but we were nowhere near alike. I eliminated Denton Rogers immediately. Not only would he know me from Smith, but he was on the lawn too shortly after the arrow was fired. The arrow obviously came from inside one of these two houses.

"That left a relative of someone who bore a grudge against me. He wouldn't recognize me. Still, I believe he would be pathetic to confuse me with Smith. As far as I knew Jefferson Hope had no relatives. It was very convenient for one to surface now.

"I then deduced that I was never the intended victim. In fact, I never believed I was the intended victim, except for maybe during a few brief moments. That was Mr. Wayne's theory. I assumed from the beginning that the murderer really meant to kill Smith."

"What does all of this have to do with me?" asked Gates.

"Everything," said Holmes. "You killed your brother-in-law. Then you panicked, and were desperate to find a way to cover it up. Robert Smith's greatest distinction was building his life to resemble mine as closely as possible. You decided the best way to avoid suspicion was to take advantage of that.

"You remembered reading the details of one of my cases. You dipped your finger in Smith's blood and scrawled that word on the wall. You also fired arrows from the room you killed Smith in at me to add to the illusion that I had been the killer's intended victim. Finally, you hired a stranger to pose as a relative of a man I had put in prison and tried to make it appear that he was the killer."

"Why would I do such a thing?" asked Gates.

"Smith found out you were having an affair," said Holmes. "He was going to tell his sister."

"That's absurd!"

"Not at all. I saw the hair on your collar when we first met."

"I told you, that hair was my wife's!"

"No. Your wife's hair is platinum. This hair was honey blonde."

"Aren't you a little old to be paying that much attention to a woman's hair?" asked Bruce.

"You should still be young enough to notice the hair color yourself," responded Holmes.

"Blonde is blonde."

"On the contrary, hair can be divided into over a hundred different shades and tones. I've produced a monogram on the subject. It would serve you well to study it."

"He can't prove any of this," said Gates, turning to Gregson.

"He doesn't need to," said Gregson. "We've got eye witnesses. We've also got the testimony of Mr. Jeffrey Pope. It would go well for you to confess now."

"I didn't mean to kill him!" said Gates frantically. "It was an accident. He had to play Sherlock Holmes and stick his nose into business that didn't concern him. He was giving me a huge lecture about morality and loyalty and threatening to tell my wife, saying I wasn't good enough for her. I lost my temper. Without thinking, I grabbed a vase…"

He turned his wide, sorrowful eyes to Holmes.

"I didn't mean to hit you either," he said. "I was trying to miss. Honest."

"That's enough, Mr. Gates," said Gregson. "You're coming with me."

"We must go as well," said Holmes. "My young friend has a lot of studying to do."

Bruce looked from Holmes to the spot where Smith's body had been. As Holmes left the room, Bruce leaned close to Gregson.

"I can understand why Gates killed him," he whispered. "He must have been impossible to live with."

**A/N – _That was another long chapter, I know. I hope as I continue to write and become more comfortable with the stories, I will be able to shorten them into much quicker reads._**

**_Again, I'm afraid I can't guarantee another chapter anytime soon. Look for an update over the next couple of months. I think I'll post the next chapter under the Comics Batman category in an attempt to snare some more readers._**


	7. The Adventure of the Secret Serum, Pt 1

_Disclaimer: I own no rights whatsoever to the titles and trademarks herein._

**J – _I'm glad you enjoyed my portrayal of Wiggins. I plan on involving him in a few more of the adventures of Bruce and Holmes._**

**Dreamsprite5 – _Bruce: 2, Holmes: 1? Tell me, how do you figure? You must let me in on your scoring system._**

_**As for Allen Gates, the typewriter tycoon… I had only a vague idea of who the killer would be when I started the story. When it came time to introduce my murderer, I decided to portray him as an early twentieth-century Bill Gates, thus the name.**_

**_A/N – And I am back. I know it has been months since my last update. I assure you, this has been for reasons far beyond my control. You would not believe what I've been through these last few months. And when I say that, I mean most of you would literally _not believe _what I've been through._**

_**Suffice it to say just recently I've had the chance to begin updating. I will continue to update as originally planned. The story you are about to read is set in late November, since I would have either updated in October or November. I still planning on having a separate December story for Christmas.**_

_**Either way, I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long, and I hope you'll find this next chapter worth the wait. Another one well not be far behind. Not if I have any say in the matter.**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**_The Adventure of the Secret Serum"_**

November 28, 1935.

Bruce enjoyed the sound of leaves crunching beneath his feet as he walked through the open fields of Sussex. He let the cold air chill his face and fill his lungs as he took in the Autumn colors.

He was at a peaceful time in his life and he was enjoying nature. There wasn't much else to enjoy.

Bruce had experienced a small amount of excitement since he began to live at Sherlock Holmes' cottage. He had helped catch an art forger and capture a murderer. But it had actually been months between then and now, and nothing terribly exciting had happened during those months.

October had come and gone, and November was almost through. Even Holmes had grown bored, actually leaving his secluded cottage, and never telling Bruce where he was going. Bruce, in turn, had begun to slack on his studies and venture outside of the cottage as well.

How much had he learned from Holmes so far? He'd already aided in the capture of two criminals. Maybe Holmes had taught Bruce all he could. Maybe it was time for Bruce to find a new teacher. Bruce decided he would at least wait until the New Year, and then he would leave.

Bruce shivered as a blast of Winter cold filled the November air. He walked briskly to the cabin, wiped his shoes in front of the door, and stepped inside.

Holmes was dressed in a formal outfit, complete with an ascot displaying an ornate pearl, and was anxiously tidying up the dining room. He looked at Bruce and snorted.

"You're dressed well enough, I suppose," said Holmes. "Here. Help me clean."

"What's going on?" asked Bruce.

"I've decided it's time for you to perform more practical studies," said Holmes. "Some hands-on experiences, as it were."

"I thought I'd already done that," said Bruce. "At the navy guy's reception and with that man who killed that other man who dressed like you."

"Those were just convenient study opportunities," said Holmes. "Unplanned lessons springing from favors I've performed for Gregson. This is different. I have announced that I am coming out of retirement, and that I will take a few select cases, only for your benefit."

"Thanks," said Bruce unenthusiastically.

"That attitude doesn't suit you," said Holmes. "I suggest you change it before my new client arrives. Ahh! That would be him now."

As he finished speaking, a knock sounded at the door. Bruce began to move to get it, but Holmes held a hand out to stop him. There was another knock. Finally, there was the sound of the door opening. A voice called out "Mr. Holmes?" Holmes remained silent. The voice sounded again, more firm this time.

Footprints could be heard stepping through the doorway.

"Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes still said nothing. Finally, a slender man with dark gray entered the dining room.

"Prof. Davenport," said Holmes. "I'm sorry I was unable to get the door. My companion and I had our hands full. Good thing you let yourself in, though if you'd not been invited it would be rather rude of you."

Davenport looked at Bruce disapprovingly.

"My protégé'," said Holmes. "He will entertain you while I get dinner. Do have a seat, professor."

Holmes left the room. Bruce and Davenport took their seats in the dining room, continuing their silent appraisal of each other. Neither seemed pleased. A minute passed in total silence before Holmes entered, a modest but healthy turkey mounted on a silver server in his hand.

"I'll carve," said Bruce.

"Would you?" said Holmes. He took a seat while Bruce rose from his. Davenport eyed Bruce nervously as the young man raised the carving knife.

"What I have to say is of crucial importance," said Davenport. "I am to speak only with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"You are speaking with him," said Holmes. "And of course you are here on a matter of crucial importance. And one of utmost secrecy. Only fitting of a member of His Majesty's government."

To say Davenport appeared flustered would be to make an almost criminal understatement.

"H-h-how did you know? I merely said I was a scientist. I didn't say…"

"I suspected it before," said Holmes. "Your mannerisms. The way you carry yourself. Your behavior told me all I needed to know. You knocked, and when no one answered you invited yourself in. You called out, and still receiving no answer, you entered into the dining room. I suspect if you hadn't found me here you would continue to search the house, and you would not leave until you found something to help you with whatever you were seeking."

"And if the door had been locker?"

"It still wouldn't have stopped you," said Holmes. "Now, what does our King wish of me?"

Davenport looked at Bruce.

"Send him away," he said. "I'm to speak with you and you alone."

"But Bruce is my protégé," said Holmes. "He is to accompany me on whatever venture I am to undertake."

"I can not allow that," said Davenport. "This is a matter of the utmost secrecy. You must send him away."

"I will do no such thing," said Holmes.

"Then I will find someone else, and you will receive no payment."

"You need not worry about me financially. I've made quite a small fortune through my career, and I have been retired some years and have wanted nothing."

Davenport paused. He furrowed his brows.

"But this is for the government."

"I believe I've already proven my loyalty to my government and my country," said Holmes. "If you do not want my help, I am sure you can find someone else."

Davenport looked at Holmes. His eyes were blazing an intense fire, but they were extinguished by the intensity in Holmes' blue-gray eyes.

"The government wishes for your help, Mr. Holmes. There's no one else we can turn to." He eyed Bruce once again. "Can he be trusted?"

"Most assuredly."

"Very well."

"Light meat or dark, Mr. Holmes?" asked Bruce.

"Guests first, Wayne."

"Dark meat," said Davenport.

Bruce placed some meat on a plate and passed it to the professor. Holmes asked for light and Bruce served him some. Finally, Bruce heaped some of the light meat onto his own plate.

"I had you figured for more of a dark meat man, Wayne," said Holmes. "Now, Professor Davenport?"

"My name is Andrew Davenport," began the professor. "I am the head of a secret government project. It involves two other scientists."

"Their names?" queried Holmes.

"I don't feel comfortable saying."

"What sort of project?"

"That I am not at liberty to say," said Davenport. "The studies were conducted at a secret location. Still, security was somehow compromised. The project was sabotaged."

Bruce nibbled at a piece of the turkey meat. Holmes noted a look of dissatisfaction in his face, responding as if he was tasting quinine.

"Enjoying your dark meat?" Bruce asked Davenport with a frown.

"Quite," said Davenport, frowning in return.

"I'm going to need more details than that," said Holmes.

Davenport began to look anxiously over his shoulders.

"I can't tell you about it. Not here," said Davenport. "I'd much rather show you. There. If you see what I mean. Could you come now?"

"Hardly," said Holmes. "And leave this magnificent bird? Perhaps you could give young Wayne and I directions and we could meet you there at a more convenient time?"

"Out of the question," said Davenport. "I must escort you."

"Perhaps sometime after dinner?"

"I will return here for you at 5:00 tomorrow morning," said Davenport. "You are to be ready then. Thank you for the food, but I simply can afford to spend no more time here."

Holmes escorted Davenport to the doorway. When he returned, Bruce was shoveling dark meat onto his plate. Holmes smiled knowingly as he sat down.

"Enjoying your meal?"

"At least it's not bread and honey," said Bruce, finally cracking a smile.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The next morning, Holmes and Bruce were both reluctantly awakened from their L-tryptophan-induced sleep. Andrew Davenport securely blindfolded the two and led them outside into a car, in which a driver was snoozing at the wheel.

After an hour of riding, Davenport helped the blindfolded duo out of the car. When he removed the blindfolds, the three were standing in an empty, chilly building.

"There was a fire here," said Holmes.

Bruce was baffled for a moment, but then he opened his nostrils and inhaled the lingering scent of burnt sulfur.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Of course, I'm not permitted to say," said Davenport. "Suffice it to know that you are in the laboratory in which a top secret formula was being created."

"What sort of formula?" asked Holmes.

"I can't say that either," said Davenport. "There are only three men that are privileged to that information. Myself, Prof. Damon Scott, and Prof. Alastir McBane. We were cooperating on the project."

Bruce heard a sound and turned towards a doorway. A man was standing there in military garb holding a rifle. Two other men, dressed similarly, were standing a few feet away.

"The item we were working on was referred to always as the Super Soldier Serum," said Davenport. "Well, not always. Alastir came up with sort of a pet name for it. He simply referred to it as the Bane Formula."

Davenport turned on his heels and began to walk to a corner of the room.

"This way, please, gentlemen," he intoned.

Bruce, Holmes, and the two military men followed Davenport to a wooden desk, now darkly charred. Holmes stooped down and examined a now black waste basket filled with ashes.

"The fire was started in here," he said. "The papers in the wastebasket were lit on fire. A trail of gunpowder leading from the wastebasket to the further reaches of the warehouse caused the fire's spread."

Holmes moved towards the desk and peered into a drawer. Davenport quickly slammed it shut.

"We can't permit you to look in there, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Government property, you understand."

Holmes nodded.

"Mr. Holmes," Davenport continued, "one week ago today, this laboratory was started on fire, and one of our scientists disappeared. It was a common practice of McBane's to continue to work late into the night, after Scott and I had already gone home. The guards were still posted in and outside of the lab, as always. The next morning, Scott and I arrived and found the four guards all outside, lying unconscious. The fire was blazing. It must have been started only an hour or so earlier, or all would have been lost. We were able to extinguish everything quickly. But when we went inside, McBane was missing, along with all of his research."

Holmes said nothing, but merely stroked his jutting chin with his long, sinewy fingers.

"We have no reason to assume McBane perished in the blaze," continued Davenport. "We tried for the first days to come up with a reasonable solution on our own. By 'we' I refer to myself and the government. We decided the best solution would be to consult you. We need you to use your connections and your resources to find McBane without compromising national security. Will you?"

"I'll do what I can," said Holmes.

Davenport replaced the blindfolds and took Bruce and Holmes home.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

After hearingthe car's motor fade into the distance, Holmes removed his own blindfold. He then proceeded to untie Bruce's.

"I don't trust him," said Bruce immediately. "For someone wanting you to solve his problem, he sure held back plenty of details."

"I suspect he had no choice," said Holmes. "It's Davenport's job to be secretive. Also, you are right in not trusting him. For the duration of this case, we are to trust no one, with the possible exception of each other. At any rate, I shall ask Gregson and Wiggins to run a background check on McBane. They shouldn't be too inquisitive."

With that, Holmes went for the telephone.

When he came back in, Bruce looked uneasy, distracted. He struck his forehead several times. Holmes slowly approached him. He jumped back when Bruce sprang from his seat and shouted, "I've got it!"

"What have you got?" Holmes demanded.

"Prof. McBane," said Bruce. "I know where I've heard of him before. He's a world-famous botanist. I studied under one of his colleagues in South America."

"You're sure this botanist is the same McBane? Wait. It must be. I noticed some burnt plant matter on his desk. It would all make sense."

"I think I could get an idea about what the project was if we knew what plants he was working with," said Bruce.

"And we will," said Holmes. "First, we need to get back inside that laboratory. Without government accompaniment."

"Back in? How are we going to pull that off?"

Holmes just smiled.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The next morning, Holmes had Bruce call for a cab. When the cab arrived, Holmes had Bruce tie a blindfold tightly across his eyes.

"I'm not so sure about this," said Bruce.

"Take notes on this, Young Master Wayne," said Holmes. "A great detective must rely on all of his senses."

The cab driver looked on with confusion as Bruce helped Holmes into the car.

"Where to?" he asked.

"I'll direct you as we go, sir," said Holmes. "Just get started."

"We started heading east," said Holmes. "I'm quite sure of it."

The cab headed in that direction for only a moment before Holmes ordered the driver to make a sharp turn to the right.

"I felt the car swerve that way," said Holmes. "Then another right up ahead. We should be coming into some traffic."

Sure enough, the cab found its way to a particularly busy street. The driver looked back at Holmes in amazement.

"Keep driving, please," instructed Holmes.

The automobile kept traveling like this for several minutes, Holmes revealing directions from seemingly out of nowhere.

"This is good," said Holmes. "I can hear waves. We are near water." He paused. "The bad news is we are being followed."

"Followed?" said Bruce.

"I've heard that car behind us for more than a few minutes now. I had hoped it was just a coincidence, but now I am quite sure we are being stalked. Driver, lose them!"

The cab driver smiled.

"This is usually such a dull job."

The driver turned the car around and passed another vehicle. The vehicle performed the same maneuver.

"They're still following," said Holmes.

The driver turned down another street. The other vehicle continued to follow behind.

"They're kind of obvious now," said Bruce. He turned his body and kept his eyes fixated on the other car.

The driver turned left at a crossroad. When the other car began to follow, the driver jerked around and began moving in the opposite direction. Bruce was sent forward into the back of the car.

"Ow!"

The other car attempted to make a sharp turn and drove off the road.

"That should buy us a few minutes," said the driver.

"We haven't shaken them yet," said Holmes.

"Can you go any faster?" demanded Bruce.

"I don't know what fancy sort of vehicle you're used to driving," said the cabbie. "But this isn't a Porsche."

He swerved quickly around again and began heading in a different direction at the crossroad. The cab then sped up, sending Bruce into the back wall of the vehicle again.

"Now, this is what I call defensive driving," said the cabby.

"They're gaining on us!" said Bruce.

The cabbie quickly spun the wheel and the car drove into the woods. The bump sent Bruce into the ceiling this time. Holmes looked as calm as ever, his hands folded in his lap and the blindfold still covering his eyes.

Turning to the side, Bruce could see the other vehicle speeding in a direct path to the side of the cab. The cabbie quickly spun the wheel again, putting the back of his vehicle parallel to the front of the other one.

He quickly swerved to avoid a clump of trees. As he passed them, the front wheels of his cab lurched over the side of an incline. Throwing the steering wheel to the side again, the tires grabbed the top of the hill. The side of the vehicle tilted precariously towards the bottom of the valley as the car crawled over the side of the hill. Bruce turned and watched the other vehicle pass the trees and then fly into the ravine below.

"Very good," said Holmes. "Take us back on to the road now."

"Do you still know where we are?"

"Yes. I think we'll manage."

The cab moved back towards the road.

"Stop!" yelled Holmes.

A young family passed by in a car.

"Didn't you see them coming?" asked the blindfolded detective. The cabbie just shrugged and pulled onto the road.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"You can let us off here," said Holmes, only a few moments later.

Bruce looked outside but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. He helped Holmes out of the car and then untied his teacher's blindfold.

"We'll take it from here," said Holmes. He reached out to give the driver his payment, but the man just smiled and drove away.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" said Bruce. They were standing in front of a rather cozy looking house. Two young men sat on the porch swing outside.

"You distract them while I go inside and have a better look around," said Holmes. Bruce looked at him incredulously. "No. Perhaps I'd better distract them. You'd probably know better than I what to look for under these circumstances."

Bruce watched as Holmes stepped towards the house. The two men on the porch stood to attention. Holmes began talking and waving. The two men left the porch and followed Holmes down the street.

Bruce bolted to the door and threw himself through it. The parlor looked regular enough. Bruce opened another door and descended a flight of stairs.

Then he recognized the secret laboratory.

Bruce only dwelt on the shock for a couple of seconds. He then realized that his time was limited. He ran towards Prof. McBain's desk. Throwing the drawer open that Davenport had hastily slammed shut, Bruce removed several charred papers filled with mathematical equations. He then removed a handful of plant remains from the desk. Then he noticed a small card with the words "Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals." Bruce saw no significance behind the card, but he had no time to think. On an impulse, he shoved the card in his pocket.

As Bruce made his way back across the room,he found what appeared to be the bottom half of a charred coffee can. There was a strange blue substance inside. Bruce sniffed the rim and his head began to spin.

The he heard the sound guns being cocked. He saw two barrels pointed at him. Two men were aiming guns at his head.

A giant shape jumped from the shadows and threw the two men to the ground. Bruce stood stunned as the figure ran up the stairs. It was human and yet not human at the same time. A mammoth figure with bulging muscles and frightened eyes.

Bruce chased it up the stairs. He found shards of broken glass where a window had once been.

The two men that had been sitting on the porch swing stepped in, both carrying rifles. Holmes was standing behind them.

**_A/N - 3/13/09 - As you must realize, I wasn't very careful about anachronisms when writing this story. And while I let many slip through, I'd like to acknowledge the many reviewers who, since my completion of this fic, have pointed out some of the more glaring errors. First of all, _HouAreYouToday _pointed out, rightly so, that Jamie Watson, a woman doctor in the 30's, would not run around in slacks and use expressions like jet-setters. Many other reviewers also caught modern American colliquiolisms slipping into the 30's British dialogue._**

**Loneheart_ pointed out several errors I made, the most embarrasing of which was my mention of a Porsche in this chapter. While it turns out the Porsche automobile company has been around since the year 1930, their first original car didn't come out until 1939, four years after this story is set. Also, they didn't fully rise to prominence until the 40's and 50's._**


	8. The Adventure of the Secret Serum, Pt 2

_Disclaimer: None of the titles, trademarks, or characters (with the exception of OC's) are mine._

"Did we smooth everything out okay?" asked Bruce, looking at Holmes from the latter's comfortable armchair at the Sussex cottage.

"It wasn't easy," said Holmes. "Prof. Davenport wasn't pleased with our trespassing. He says it's only by the grace of God we weren't shot down on the spot. Still, I assured him it would do no good to press charges against us when we can still help him. He agreed, of course."

Bruce put down his notes, placing his papers against the charred ones he had found in the government lab. Various plant names and botanical terms were scribbled across everything.

"I've prepared my table, if you're ready to assist me."

Bruce rose from the chair and followed Holmes to his chemistry table. Holmes explained what had he had done, and Bruce was impressed by the wide variety of chemicals Holmes had at his disposal, and by the variety of things he knew how to do with them.

The two began to analyze the plant remains Bruce had found in the lab. He also used a special technique to make the charred papers Bruce had found slightly more readable. At several points during their experiments, Holmes would leave the room to answer or make a phone call. Bruce's notes expanded as he compared his speculations to the outcome of the chemical analyses.

"I don't like this," said Bruce. "Not at all. There's too many mistakes with the formula."

"How so?" asked Holmes.

"Apparently the government was working on some sort of serum for human consumption," said Bruce. "A medicine, if you will. It looks like McBane was working on a way of incorporating organic and synthetic elements to make this medicine. Several of the roots and plants he used are known to have strength and energy enhancing qualities. What worries me is the _cotidie _root. It was said at one point to act as a strong pain killer. Unfortunately, it can also cause distortion of senses, panic attacks, and even hallucinations. Most people try to avoid it now."

"Apparently McBane wasn't like most people," said Holmes. "What bothers me is traces of blood found with the plant matter and on McBane's papers. Now, let's take a look at that other item you found."

After careful analysis, Bruce and Holmes found the substance inside the coffee can to be made of the same elements as those they had studied before.

"The contents of this can…" started Bruce excitedly.

"Nerve gas," finished Holmes. "A substance designed to render anyone who inhales it unconscious."

"Which is why the guards were found passed out at the lab," said Bruce.

"But they were found outside," said Holmes. "They must have lost consciousness in the lab and then been dragged out."

"Whoever made them inhale that gas must also have rescued them from the fire."

"And may have started it himself."

A loud jangling was heard, and Holmes left to answer the phone once again. He returned to the chemistry table a moment later.

"That was Wiggins," he said. "His connections have finally come through. It seems McBane owns a piece of property on the coast not too far from here. He often goes there when he needs a rest. This certainly warrants our attention."

Holmes grabbed his cloak and deerstalker and Bruce followed him out the door.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The beach, covered in a thick layer of snow, was deserted. The water was frozen. Holmes and Bruce met little interruption on their way to McBane's beach house, the only one within quite a few yards.

Bruce thought he saw someone moving behind the beach house. Holmes slowly crept beside the wall to investigate. He saw a man in his late forties, looking at something on the ground and clutching his thin trench coat close to his body. Another group of men were huddled nearby.

"Inspector Hopkins, isn't it?" said Holmes, stepping out into the open.

"Why, Mr. Holmes!" said the man. "You do have a knack for showing up at the most convenient times."

Holmes motioned for Bruce to join them.

"Inspector Hopkins, this is my protégé, Bruce Wayne," said Holmes.

"Inspector Stanley Hopkins," said the other man, shaking Bruce's hand.

"How is your family?" asked Holmes.

"Surviving," said Hopkins. "You know how it is. Been stuck in this career for so long. And here you saw such promise for me."

"Don't fret," said Holmes. "In a few years you'll have Gregson's job. I guarantee it. Now, what's going on here?"

Hopkins stepped to the side. Another man was laying on the ground behind him.

"It's Alastir McBane!" cried Bruce. "He's dead."

"Hasn't been like that long," said Hopkins. "Amorous couple were lying in his backyard when he washed up behind them. He appears to have drowned himself."

"You're sure it's him?" said Holmes, looking not at Hopkins but at Bruce.

"I think so," said Bruce. "I mean, why would it be anyone else?"

The face was just barely recognizable. It had been discolored and bloated and warped by the freezing water.

"We think it's a suicide," said Hopkins. "Makes sense. Apparently, he was missing from some sort of government project. Must have made him deathly nervous."

Holmes was studying the body keenly.

"If it was a suicide, there was a witness," muttered Holmes.

"What do you mean?" asked Hopkins.

"Surely you must have noticed it," said Holmes. "Certainly before this herd of elephants marched through disturbing the scene. I've spotted one set of footprints here that isn't accounted for by any of those present, McBane included. It leads to the ocean."

"What else can you tell us about this other person, Mr. Holmes?"

"Only that he is about the same weight, height, and build as this man lying here," said Holmes. "Beyond that, I can tell you nothing."

"By the way, if you don't mind my asking, sir," said Hopkins, "what's brought you here?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, Inspector," said Holmes. "Highly confidential. But I wish you luck with your investigation. Do you mind if Young Wayne and I look around inside?"

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," said the Inspector. "In fact, I insist that you do."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce and Holmes carefully examined each room of McBane's beach house. All they found was a small business card, similar to the one Bruce had uncovered at the secret laboratory.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes said nothing on the way back to the cottage. When he and Bruce stepped through the door, he immediately grabbed for his pipe. As he smoked, Bruce went upstairs to toss himself across the bed and muse on the answers to the puzzle himself.

When Bruce came down the stairs, he found Holmes on the telephone. Holmes turned to him.

"I called Wiggins' Agency again," said Holmes. "He's having some of his top operatives look into Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals." He dropped down into his favorite chair. "There's nothing left for us to do but wait."

A week went by. During these seven days, Holmes would often receive phone calls from Wiggins, but nothing substantial was ever turned up. The expenses for the small detective agency were mounting. Holmes also spent an unusually large portion of his time at his chemistry set, toying with one substance or another. At the end of the week, Wiggins called Holmes with dread in his voice. He had completely lost contact with one of his top operatives, whom he had assigned to Holmes' case.

"It's time we take matters into our own hands," Holmes told Bruce.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals building was surrounded by an unusually large amount of guards, and it was separated from the outside by an unusually high barbed wire fence. Holmes spotted a cliff above that would provide a much better vantage point into the factory, and he and Bruce began their long, strenuous hike through the dark woods.

Once on the cliff, Holmes removed a pair of binoculars from the folds of his cloak and focused on the building below, now illuminated by electric lamps.

"The guards are armed very fully for pharmaceutical workers," said Holmes. "And the windows are tinted. Somehow we'll have to get a closer look."

Then he felt something pressed to the back of his head and heard swearing in German. He and Bruce slowly raised their arms.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce and Holmes were led inside the building and thrown into a cage. A heavy wooden door was slammed and locked. Some sort of holding facility.

Another man, face covered in hairy bristles, hair greasy and disheveled, was sitting slouched in the corner of the cell. He looked up at Holmes and Bruce. His mouth moved but no sound was coming out. He began to pant and wheeze.

Bruce quickly handed the man a canteen he always carried on his person. The man began to swallow greedily. He choked and spit and wheezed. Then he drank some more. Finally, he sighed and wiped his mouth.

"Rhine!" he said. "He's a Nazi!"

Bruce's blood went cold as a low moan filled the air. He spotted a bulky figure in an adjacent cage. Then he stumbled back.

"M-m-monster!" he stuttered. "The same monster I saw back at the lab!"

"Not a monster, Young Master," said Holmes. "Look again."

Bruce steadied himself, only to once again recoil.

"My God!" he exclaimed. "It's Alastir McBane. But how…? But what…? But who…?"

"This is the story as I imagine it," said Holmes. "I'll start from the beginning. McBane was one of three scientists approached to work on a top secret project for the British government. The project involved creating a formula, both organic and synthetic, that could increase the strength and endurance of the human body. A super steroid for creating super soldiers.

"McBane was frequently approached by a man who claimed to be a representative of a pharmaceutical company. This man claimed he wanted to buy McBane's research in order to fight diseases and heal injuries. McBane was very suspicious and continually refused the man.

"Then the accident happened. While studying the materials he was working with, McBane cut himself. The substances entered his blood stream and began to slowly take effect. One of the side effects was an advanced case of paranoia. McBane decided he had no choice but to destroy his research. He asked to stay late at the laboratory and then released a nerve gas he had created on the guards. Then he started a fire that he hoped would consume the laboratory along with most of his research, and all of what remained of the formula. It was he who also dragged the guards out of the burning building, at that time wanting only to destroy items, not human life.

"But the chemicals in his blood stream began to take more effect. His muscles rapidly grew, throwing his body out of shape and morphing him into something monstrous and inhuman. Also, the chemicals slowly destroyed the scientist's mind. He became even more paranoid, now psychotic.

"McBane fled to his beach house to avoid people. He found that men claiming to be from the pharmaceutical company still sought him, snooping around the house. He needed to die. He needed a body. He prowled the beach and the streets until he found a defenseless old man who almost looked like him. He drowned the man, certain word would get out he had committed suicide."

"But McBain wouldn't…!" Bruce began.

"He's no longer the same McBane," said Holmes. "The chemicals have altered his mind. He's more animal than man."

"Did you always know the man on the beach…?"

"As soon as I examined the body," said Holmes. "There was no sign of a recent cut or scratch on his body, yet McBane had left a substantial amount of blood all over his desk. This body was obviously a decoy."

"It always amazes me how you put it all together, Mr. Holmes," said the man in the corner. Holmes looked at him more closely.

"I know you, don't I? Of course! Ernie Stappleton!"

"Once a Baker Street Irregular, always an Irregular, sir."

Holmes turned to face the clatter of approaching footsteps. A guard unlocked the door of the cell and opened it. Several of the guards formed a thick mass behind a single man in a khaki uniform. His hair was a radiant golden blonde, every strand kept neatly out of his face, so as not to conceal his eyes. They were blue, the same shade of blue as an innocent babies. But their innocent appearance contrasted with a malevolent face, a pair of thin lips twisted into a smirk, and a jaw that was definitely squared. A swastika spread like a spider across the sleeve of his uniform.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said in a cool, calm, and subtly menacing German voice. "My name is Colonel Aldous Rhine."

"A member of Hitler's National Socialist Party, of course," said Holmes. "And why is the fuehrer so concerned with matters in London?"

"I shall ask the questions here," said Rhine. "What are you doing here? How did you find this place?"

"This place did pose as a legitimate place of business after all," said Holmes. "Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals, of course, is just a front for a laboratory at which you can prepare for chemical warfare."

"Chemical warfare?" said Rhine. "Those aren't the words for it at all. We are manufacturing your government's brilliant formula. Since my spies have already put enough of the good professor's formula together to start production, we are on the verge of creating a new, better race! Every National Socialist shall be übermensch!"

Rhine's boyish face twisted in psychotic glee. He rubbed his hands together rapidly as the devilish smile consumed his face.

"The tanks behind me are filled with the ingredients of the formula already," he said. "It's just a matter of combining them correctly. And now you, my new friends will die."

Rhine moved aside. As the men in the front row cocked their weapons, Holmes reached into the folds of his cloak. He removed a test tube and uncorked the stop, then threw the contents forward. The men began to wobble in front of him. Holmes quickly threw the cloak across his face. Following his example, Stappleton pulled a handkerchief across his mouth and nose and Bruce bundled his face in his scarve.

While the men still lurched and shook, Holmes threw his legs into two of their chests, knocking them to the ground. He then performed a roundhouse kick, knocking two more off of their feet.

Bruce grabbed the nearest guard and threw him into the cell bars.

Excited by the commotion, McBane grabbed on the bars of his cell and began to bend them apart. The guards began to fire their weapons at McBane. Holmes grabbed Bruce by the collar and pulled him through a wave of the guards. Bruce broke free from his grip and ran to the professor. The beast was moaning and waving after bullet after bullet struck his flesh. Streams of blood began to roll from McBane's body as he fell to the ground, convulsing and groaning.

Holmes found Bruce and again grabbed and pulled. Now the guards turned towards them. Holmes let go and began punching. Bruce turned to another guard and kicked. The man twisted Bruce's foot. Bruce howled in pain. When the guard let go, Bruce threw a quick left hook and then a right, followed by a jab, knocking the man out. He ducked as another man threw a fist toward him. When he came back up, the man's fist caught him. Bruce staggered back and tried to limp away. The man moved toward him.

Holmes stepped in and threw out his fist, rapidly knocking the guard out.

"Come on!" he yelled to Bruce.

Bruce followed after Holmes. He could see Stappleton punching and kicking up ahead.

Bruce and Holmes stopped in their tracks as a man with a flame thrower stepped out in front of them. At the same time, Bruce and Holmes leapt to avoid the flames. Holmes rolled over and kicked the man with the flamethrower. The man fell into a table covered in test tubes. There was a small explosion and smoke began to fill the air. Flames were spreading all around.

Holmes ran forward. As Bruce limped forward to catch up, he was caught by another guard's fist. He fell to the floor and wiped blood from his lips. He threw his foot forward and caught the guard in the chest. The guard fell into a flame, his suit catching fire. Bruce felt the intense heat of the searing flames smothering him, but the pain was too much for him to get up.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Meanwhile, Holmes was caught between two guards. He delivered a right hook to one man, pushing him to the side, then turned and delivered a left hook to the other. Both guards jabbed at him, but Holmes ducked out of the way. The two guards smashed each other's faces and fell to the ground.

Then Holmes heard a battle cry and saw Rhine thundering towards him. Holmes threw a hard punch into Rhine's face. Rhine took a step back, wiped the blood from his lip, licked it off of his hand, and then smiled and stepped forward. He threw a hard punch into the side of Holmes' face, causing the elderly detective to stumble to the ground.

Seeing this, Bruce forced himself to his feet and began to dodge flames on his way to his teacher's side.

Rhine laughed and kicked Holmes' in the face before he could get up. He moved towards Holmes and kicked again, only this time Holmes caught his foot. The detective pushed and the Nazi flew backwards, flying through a tall flame and igniting his clothes. As he screamed, Holmes jumped to his feet and threw a jab into Rhine's face.

Rhine threw himself to the ground and rolled back and forth. He rose with a thick plank of wood in his hand, one end shard and jagged and aimed towards Holmes. Holmes grabbed the board and tried to force it back. The board slipped from Rhine's hand. Holmes grabbed it and rotated it in his hands.

Rhine stepped forward and grabbed the board as Holmes had, pushing back. Bruce staggered to Holmes' side and grabbed the board. Pushing with all of their might, Holmes and Bruce rammed the board through the center of Rhine's chest. They continued pushing until the end of the board penetrated the side of a tank.

Chemicals began to pour through the crack, flowing down Rhine's back and forming puddles beneath him.

Holmes and Bruce ran as fast as they could. They flew down a flight of stairs and out the nearest fire exit.

Stappleton dropped from a terrace above.

The three limped as far as they could as the factory leapt into hideous flames behind them.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Of course, our government refuses to pay you in cash, Mr. Holmes," said Andrew Davenport. "You shouldn't expect payment for performing a service to your country."

Bruce snickered. Davenport frowned but refused to take his eyes from the disapproving Holmes.

"But in our original agreement…," Holmes began.

"Our agreement…," said Davenport slowly. "I don't remember the exact details of our agreement. I simply extended a plea from His Majesty…"

"You mean we should have got this in writing," said Bruce.

"Shut up, you…!"

Holmes cleared his throat loudly.

"Prof. Davenport, you misled me," he said.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Holmes," said Davenport. "But this whole thing is bigger than you. Besides, we hardly got the results we expected. You were to bring us McBane alive. You merely gave us your word that he is dead."

"And that a major threat to the country, if not the world, died with him," said Bruce.

"We have no proof of such threat," said Davenport. He inched backwards towards the door. "However, His Majesty does offer a token of appreciation in return for your best efforts."

Two men entered and slowly lowered a parcel covered in brown paper.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Holmes," said Davenport. He extended his hand. Holmes simply slipped his sinewy fingers into his pockets. Davenport just shrugged and walked away, followed by the two men.

Bruce watched the G-Men drive off.

"What do you suppose they gave us?" he asked.

"A portrait of my King," he said. "I'm sure we can find some room for His Majesty in the cellar."

Holmes sat down in his armchair and closed his eyes.

"That was McBane's nerve gas you used in there," said Bruce.

"A milder version of it, yes," said Holmes. "I figured we may have use for a substance to shock and stun."

"How many test tubes can you carry in that cloak of your?"

"What would you suggest instead? Some sort of utility belt?"

"And that fighting!" said Bruce. "I didn't think…"

"That a man in his seventies could hold his own in a brawl?" said Holmes. "You know a little bit of street fighting, but you've never learned to box, have you?"  
"No," said Bruce.

"Boxing is a pretty elementary fighting style to learn," said Holmes. "When the weather turns warm, I shall have to teach you some moves."

**A/N - _Happy Belated Thanksgiving. Now, that I'm a little bit caught up, I hope to be able to give you a proper Holiday Greeting soon. I'll try to have a Christmas-themed update ready in time for the holidays. And, again, _I'll try to make it short! **

**_If I don't have an update ready by then, I'd like to wish all my readers a Merry Christmas right now, and a Happy New Year._**


	9. A Case of Christmas Fear, Pt 1

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein._

**Dreamsprite 5 – _As always, thank you for your reviews. I think you're right about Sherlock being a little bit out of character on his last adventure, but hear me out. First off, Holmes' fighting. The roundhouse kick was a bit much, but it was the only move that really fit. I wanted to show Holmes as a capable fighter. Most pastiches capture Holmes' brilliance as an investigator, but many forget that Doyle also described him as an able boxer and a crack marksman. A regular action hero. I also wanted to show Bruce isn't yet the capable fighter that he becomes as Batman._**

**_As for Holmes' interactions with Professor Davenport. I wanted to really display Professor Davenport as a government bureaucrat, concerned with keeping secrets more than anything else. Also, I wanted Holmes and Bruce to unravel government secrets through their own means rather than just being given them. The adventure would have been much shorter if Bruce and Holmes didn't have the opportunity to get at the truth by their own means._**

_**And yes, the McBane formula is an early version of the formula that will later create Batman's nemesis Bane.**_

**_A/N – Here's the festive Christmas caper I promised you. Sherlock Holmes is no stranger to Christmas crimes, from the canonical "_The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle"_ to the series of pastiches published in "_Holmes for the Holiday."**

**_This particular adventure is derived from _"A Ghost of Christmas"_, a "_Murder She Wrote"_ fanfic of mine that wasn't well received and has long been deleted. I always felt that my plot was a good one and could be done better with different characters and a simplified story line. Hopefully, the presence of Holmes and Wayne and company will breath new life into my not-so-glorious recycled fanfic._**

**_Consider it my little Christmas gift to you, my readers. _**

_**And those of you who do not remember Ms. Sabrina Smith may do well to reread the Case of the Winged Demon.**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**_A Case of Christmas Fear"_**

December 22, 1935.

The Thames was frozen solid. The air was frigid. Intelligent people were buried under layers of blanketing in their cozy households, or nestled up beside a roaring fire.

Joseph Gray was not fortunate enough to be among those intelligent people. He was drinking coffee in a cold, pitch black. The dock house was freezing. Joseph was cussing.

Earlier he had decided not to fall asleep on his job, only because he was certain that if he fell asleep in this freezing cold, he would never wake up. Now the prospect didn't seem like such a bad one. Joseph closed his eyes to rest them for a few minutes.

His senses sharpened, compensating for his lack of vision.

Joseph heard a sound. It was a very faint sound, but it was enough to make him open his eyes, jump out of his seat, and turn on his flashlight.

The dock guard searched the room with the beam of his flashlight and found nothing. Yet, when he closed his eyes again, he was sure he could hear another human's breathing in the room.

The guard walked forward slowly. Suddenly, something darted out of the blackness. The beam of light caught a glimmer of a brownish-red mass flying through the air.

"Freeze!" yelled Joseph.

He followed the path of the mass with his light. All he could see in front of him was a tower of wooden crates. Then he heard soft footsteps. He slowly made his way toward the tower of crates.

_"Reo-wwr!"_

An old tomcat ran across the warehouse floor. Joseph gasped to regain his breath and began to wipe freezing sweat from his forehead.

There was a bright flash of light up ahead. Joseph ran to the wall and threw up the light switch.

There was a moment of darkness and _hizzing_, then the warehouse was covered in light.

A woman stood in front of Joseph holding a camera. She was tall and slender and very beautiful. Now Joseph was really frozen.

She was dressed in a brownish-red jumpsuit, tight against her body, every curve distinctly displayed, rigid in the cold. She brushed long, brunette bangs out of her face. She was wearing a black mask across her eyes and nose. She smiled mischievously as she ran her hand down her side, past her hip.

Joseph said nothing.

The woman winked. Then she lifted one of her pant legs, revealing tanned flesh, and a gun. Everything went black.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sherlock Holmes was a man who was not easily puzzled. On top of that, he had spent the last several years of his life as a recluse. Therefore, Holmes was ashamed that he was puzzled over Bruce Wayne's reclusive behavior over the past month.

Bruce had spent most of his December in his rooms. He had still done his chores. He had watched with something resembling fascination when Holmes taught his to move the beehives to a heated hutch for the winter. He had talked even less than usual, though. He barely said a word. He was in a perpetual state of sulkiness.

Holmes could tolerate Bruce's anti-social behavior no longer. He was never a man of much celebration himself, but Dr. Watson had always become more lively and joyous during this time of year. Even Holmes hadn't been a complete stranger to Christmas joy during his few years as a beekeeper.

Holmes knocked on Bruce's door.

"Come in," was the emotionless reply.

Holmes pushed open the door. Bruce was lying awake with his head on his pillow, looking at the wall and frowning.

"Get freshened up," said Holmes, lightly shaking Bruce's shoulder. "We're going to the theater tonight."

Bruce just groaned and rolled over.

"The Chief Inspector has provided me with tickets for one of London's finer theaters," Holmes continued. "For myself and two companions."

"Which play?" asked Bruce.

"Mr. Dicken's 'Christmas Carol'," said Holmes. "Considered by some a classic. I've seen it myself once or twice. But there are new actors and a new director, which should make this a different show entirely."

"I'm not interested," muttered Bruce.

"Nonsense," said Holmes. "Now, go get properly dressed."

"I'm just not into this whole Christmas thing," said Bruce. "Wake me up when December ends."

Now Holmes frowned.

"I'm not giving you an option in this," he said. "If you want to battle the criminal classes, it's essential that you make contacts in the community. In all areas of society, including the theater crowd."

He hesitated.

"The other ticket is for the young Dr. Watson," said Holmes. "She will be accompanying us."

Bruce couldn't help the small smile dancing on his lips. The thought of the beautiful young doctor warmed his entire body. He had only seen her for extremely brief periods over the last three months.

"Also, I'm interested in seeing how valid the acting abilities are of your friend Sabrina Smith. She has a substantial role in the production."

Now Bruce couldn't help grinning wildly. He was lost in boyish fantasies of two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen… together.

"I'll think about it," he said.

"I'm not giving you an option," said Holmes, leaving and shutting the door swiftly behind him.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

A tuxedoed Holmes and Bruce found Dr. Jamie Watson waiting for them outside of the theater. She was dressed in the same dress shirt and black slacks Bruce had met her in, but the time since he had last seen her in it made her seem all the more attractive to him.

Dr. Watson folded the page of the London Times she was reading and smiled at Holmes and Bruce.

"Have you seen the front page?" she asked Holmes.

"Dock worker found unconscious," recited Holmes. "Serial prowler at large."

"What's all this about?" asked Bruce.

"Joseph Gray was found sleeping with a tranquilizer dart in his leg in a London dock house," said Jamie. "He's one of several warehouse guards that have been found like that all over the country over the course of this year. The incidents are attributed to a character known only as the Golden Fox."

"Half the workers swear the Golden Fox is a woman," said Holmes. "The other half swears just as vehemently that it was a man."

"Are you involved in the case in anyway?" said Jamie.

"No," said Holmes. "I haven't been asked. Not surprising considering the level of confidentiality surrounding the case. The papers have been sparser than usual with details."

"But you must have your own theory?" said Jamie.

"Enough talking shop," said Holmes. "Let's go in."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The trio entered the theater, surrounded by happy theater goers wearing decorations of holly sprigs and red and green ribbons. Men and women greeted each other and wished each other happy holidays. Bruce felt sick to his stomach.

"Bah humbug!" he muttered under his breath.

Finally, Holmes found the seats and the three settled comfortably into them. Bruce tried to sit next to Jamie, but Holmes gave him a stern look and insisted on sitting between them. Bruce tried to catch a sideways glance at Jamie, but he just found Holmes staring down the end of his long nose at him and giving him a disapproving glance.

Bruce folded his arms, pulled himself back into his seat, and reluctantly resigned himself to staring at the empty stage.

Holmes rose from his seat.

"I think I see Gregson and his wife," said Holmes. "I'll go have a word with them. But I'll be back shortly. _Very _shortly. Excuse me."

Bruce sat with his back stiff against the back of his chair, staring woodenly ahead of him. He heard Jamie's laugh.

"It's alright," she said. "He's not watching us anymore."

Bruce turned to see Jamie smiling widely.

"I know Uncle Sherlock can be a little overprotective of me…"

"I'll say!"

"But you'd probably get away with trying something," Dr. Watson continued. "After all, you're his golden boy."

Bruce looked at her in be-puzzlement.

"What do you mean?"

"You're his protégé," said Jamie. "The great Yankee hope. I didn't think I'd ever see Sherlock Holmes out in society again. You've given him fresh motivation. He's always had need of someone to be a mentor to."

"I still don't understand what you mean," said Bruce.

"He's getting old," said Jamie. "He wants someone to pass the torch to."  
"What about Dr. Watson?"

"My father learned a lot from Mr. Holmes," said Jamie. "A lot about criminology. And ultimately, Uncle Sherlock helped dad fulfill his dream. I think he knew that was what he was doing all the time. But you see, my father didn't want to become a crime fighter. No. Uncle Sherlock helped him to become the thing he'd always wanted to be. A writer."

"A writer?"

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes taught my father to look at the world with fresh eyes. To see what was really going on in the human heart and human mind. To observe miniscule details and complex imagery. With Uncle Sherlock's mentoring, my father became a great author.

"Then there was William Wiggins and the Baker Street Irregulars. Wiggins is a detective now, alright. But he's a legman. He's extraordinary at gathering facts and information. But he's no super sleuth. He can't connect behavior and words and scenery to paint a picture of something that has happened in the past the way Sherlock Holmes can."

"And what about you?" asked Bruce.

"Uncle Sherlock has been a great personal mentor to me," said Dr. Watson. "He has helped make me into the woman I've become. But I learned everything about medicine from my father, and a few things about criminology from Uncle Sherlock. You're the first person he's mentored who actually wants to make it his life's goal to understand and stop criminals. He's grooming you to be the next Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello, Bruce," Wayne heard in his ear. The voice was smooth, seductive, and feminine. Jamie's face turned sour as Bruce turned to look at Sabrina Smith.

Sabrina Smith's lips were a delicious ruby red and her dress was a sumptuous brown red. She was crouching behind his row of seats.

"I thought you were acting in the play," said Bruce.

"I am," said Sabrina. "I play the Ghost of Christmas Past. But it's so boring backstage. I wanted to get a look at the crowd. Then I saw you…"

She brought her lips close to his ear.

"…And I couldn't help but stop to say a friendly hello."

"Why, hello," said Bruce with a large smile.

"I'd better get back there to finish putting my costume and make-up on before our director catches me," said Sabrina. "He'd have a fit! See you after the show?"

"Count on it!"

Sabrina slunk away, her posterior shaking side-to-side behind her like a wagging tail.

"She's pretty," said Jamie slowly. She paused. "I don't like her."

Bruce's smile just expanded. Then he saw Holmes coming back to his seat, and the lights slowly began to dim.

"Perfect timing," said the great detective.

"Marley was dead to begin with," said the narrator in a voice worldly and distinctly British, smooth and thunderous, rich and simple. "As dead as a doornail."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The familiar scenes began to unfold. Ebenezer Scrooge ignored charity, rejected the spirit of Christmas, and mistreated his kindly clerk. Most of the audience was captured by the performance, held spellbound at the edge of their seats. Bruce, on the other hand, just yawned and leaned back further in his.

The scene changed to Scrooge's bedroom. When Scrooge sat on his bed, things became interesting.

"What's that I hear?" said Scrooge. "The rattling of chains?"

He cupped a hand to his ear and sat at the edge of his bed, waiting anxiously for something to happen. After a minute, he dropped his hand and rolled his eyes.

"What's that I hear?" repeated Scrooge, a little more loudly this time. "The rattling of chains?"

Again, he waited at the edge of his bed. After a few minutes during which crickets were audible, Scrooge pounded both of his fists into the mattress and walked off stage.

Loud whispers spread across the audience as the stage remained unlighted and deserted. Bruce recognized the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard standing up in front of him and walking towards the stage.

After a few moments had passed, Gregson walked back up the aisle to his seat, his face graven. The house lights slowly came up as Gregson made his way to Holmes' seat.

"Don't go anywhere," Gregson whispered. "They'll want to see you backstage."

The director walked to the front of the stage.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "The play will not continue tonight due to some very unfortunate circumstances. Your tickets will be refunded on the way out. Would you all please leave immediately? I'm very sorry, and I thank you all for your understanding."

As the confused audience made its way to the exit, Holmes, Bruce, and Dr. Watson moved in the opposite direction.

"Mr. Clark," said Gregson, "this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

George Clark's face was as white as a ghost's.

"Thank God you're here Mr. Holmes," he said. "I never thought I'd see this sort of situation. Not in theater."

"What's happened?"

"It's Sir William," said Clark. "Sir William. He's dead!"

George Clark, the director, led the detectives backstage to the dressing room of Sir William Moore, the acclaimed English thespian. A heavy chain was knotted tightly around Sir William's neck.

"You can't put this on me!" said Ebenezer Scrooge. "I've been on stage ever since this thing started tonight."

Jamie touched Sir William's neck. She looked surprised, then clapped her hands together. Some white powder fell from her hands. She touched Sir William again.

"It's awfully warm in here," she said. "But the body's cold and rigid. He must have been dead for over an hour. Maybe even two or more."

Holmes stepped into the dressing room.

"Come in here, Master Wayne," he said. "Tell me what you observe."


	10. A Case of Christmas Fear, Pt 2

_Disclaimer - I made my list, checked it twice, and found I still owned no rights to any of the characters within, although Sherlock Holmes and related characters are, I believe, in the public domain._

**Frog1 - _Thanks for the heads-up. I try to research to keep everything in its historical context, but it seems there are some things I'm still not quite up to snuff on. Guess I'll have to go back to hitting the books, or more likely, the 'Net._**

**_A/N – Merry Christmas. Or Happy Christmas Eve to those night owls who are the first to read this chapter. Enjoy this little gift, from my heart to yours._**

Bruce Wayne looked more at Jamie Watson's back than at the dressing room around him as he entered it. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was studying every corner of the room intently.

"Sir William was…"

"Sir William Moore," said Holmes. "Renowned Shakespearian actor. Came from a long line of respected actors. He portrayed me on stage once… badly. He was also your Jacob Marley."

"Exactly," said George Clark.

"He was also a disagreeable man, I assume," said Holmes. "And he often complained about a draft."

Clark just looked at Holmes with surprise. Holmes moved to the wall and ran his hand against it. He opened a panel and snowflakes flew into the room.

"Yes," said Clark. "Sir William had a dressing room with a door to outside the theater."

Holmes watched as Bruce ran his hand across a dresser in the room and then reeled back in disgust. He lifted green fingers into the air and began waving his hand, like a bat shaking water from his wings. Holmes just shook his head.

"When was the last time anyone saw Sir William alive?" asked Holmes.

"I saw him when he first came in to the theater, about three hours ago," said Clark. "He passed me and went straight into his dressing room, locking the door behind him. That was his habit. Method actor and all."

"I'd say cause of death was strangulation with this chain," said Dr. Jamie Watson. "Probably overstating the obvious, but that's what they pay me for."

"Who are you?" asked Clark.

"Jamie Watson. I'm a doctor."

"But you're so young. Barely in your…"

"Twenties. I know. My father had powerful connections in the medical world."

"Who had reason to want Sir William dead?" asked Holmes.

"That's a stupid question to ask!" scoffed Clark.

Everyone turned at looked at George Clark as if he had just said something vulgar. He began to blush a bit in response.

"I just meant, everyone Sir William Moore ever met has wanted him dead. He's managed to survive alright so far."

"Then perhaps a better question to ask is who's seen Sir Williams over the past three hours?"

At the moment, there was a huge gasp. A young woman with curly golden hair was standing in the door, her mouth hanging wide open. In an instant, a young, dark-haired man ran up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and turned her around in the doorway.

"What happened?" said the young woman between sobs. "It's Will, isn't it? He's dead."

The woman broke from the man's grip and ran back into the room. She made a fist and bit it, tears streaming down her face.

"What happened?"

"This is Mary Kissick," said Clark. "She's one of our actresses. Mary, I'm sorry you had to…"

The man embraced Mary tightly.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he said. "You shouldn't have seen this. I'm so sorry."

"Perhaps it would be best if the lady went to her dressing room to recover," suggested Gregson.

Ebenezer Scrooge entered the dressing room. Bruce was just beginning to appreciate how wondrously spacious Sir William's dressing room was.

"Michael," said Clark, "get Mary out of here."

"But… but… but… _Bah_!"

Micheal and Mary left the room. The other man looked from the crowd in the room to Sir William's body and back again.

Gregson stepped forward.

"I'm Chief Inspector Gregson," he said. "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"The famous detective," said the young man, stepping forward. "I'm Quincy Ford."

He and Holmes shook hands. Holmes withdrew his hand quickly and looked at it.

"Sorry about that," said Ford. "The paint's a killer to get out of your clothes, but at least it dries quickly."

"You're a carpenter, Mr. Ford?"

"Yes. I've been helping with props and set design and construction."

"Quincy was with me the last time I saw Sir William alive," said Clark.

"Yes. I remember," said Ford. "He grunted at us both rudely. It only makes sense that someone finally got to the old bugger."

"No need for such vulgar language!" said Gregson. "Especially not in front of a…"

"I don't mind it," said Jamie.

"Wait a minute," said Clark. "You should have been the last one to see him alive, Quincy. I sent you to tell him his cue was coming up almost half-an-hour ago."

"I did tell him," said Ford. "I went and knocked on his door. Yelled in to him. He didn't say anything."

"Did this seem suspicious to you?" asked Jamie.

"No," said Ford. "He was stubborn and he usually didn't talk to anyone while in the dressing room. I thought I even heard him grunt a response, but it might just have been my imagination."

"With your permission, I would like to talk with the rest of the members of your cast, Mr. Clark," said Holmes. "They may be able to help better pinpoint a time of death."

"Whatever it takes for you to get to the bottom of this, Mr. Holmes."

"Do you consent, Chief Inspector?" asked Holmes.

"Of course," said Gregson. "Just try not to disturb anything backstage until backup arrives."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"What do you want?" snarled Michael.

"We'll start with your full name," said Bruce, stepping into the dressing room, which was less than half the size of Sir William's.

"Michael Wyte. Are you with the police?"

"Not officially," said Holmes. "We're consulting detectives. May we ask you some questions?"

"Will you leave if I say no?"  
"No," said Bruce.

"Then just shut the door behind you," sneered Wyte. He removed his long, snowy gray wig, revealing shorter, thinner, and darker gray hair beneath.

"Do you know anyone with a reason to want Sir William dead?" asked Holmes.

"Half of this cast," replied Wyte, "if not all of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's start with our fearless leader," said Wyte with a smirk. "He and Sir William have a long history, and a bad one. They used to be partners in a stage act. Sir William made it big. George Clark didn't. To add insult to injury, Clark had to grovel at Sir William's feet for him to be a part of this production."

"Why?" asked Bruce.

Wyte removed his shirt, revealing a pale, saggy chest and belly. Bruce gagged. Holmes just kept his eyes focused on Wyte's sneering face, unflinching.

"Because Clark's career was going down the latrine," said Wyte. "He needed a hit to redeem himself. The only way to do that was to get a hold of the most famous actor he knew. And speaking of said actor, let me tell you this, that Moore fellow was very overrated. And you know, there's something unlikable about that Clark guy, too. Makes enemies everywhere. He and that carpenter really can't stand each other."

"Anyone else who hated Sir William?" asked Holmes.

"Talk to the women here."

"They hated Sir William?"

"If not him, he gave them a reason to hate each other. That old codger had a way with the ladies, let me tell you. That smarmy,Shakespearing thespian thing he had going on. They thought he was so sophisticated. I think he was just perverted, going for younger women like that."

"Younger women?"

"Oh, he charmed the old ladies, too," said Wyte. "But he was more interested in the young ones. That fine thing playing the first ghost…"

"Sabrina Smith?" said Bruce.

"Exactly. And the girl playing Belle, the younger me's love interest. Marry Kissick. He would take Kissick aside and give her 'acting lessons.' He called them that, anyway. Then she caught him giving lessons to that other foxy lady, and all Hell broke loose."

"Thank you for your help. Mr. Wyte," said Holmes. "You've helped me immensely. And Merry Christmas."  
"Christmas? Bah humbug!" said Wyte. "Confounded holiday! Confounded play! I'm glad it's over now. Waste of my acting talents, I'll tell you!"

"But you're playing the lead role."

"So what? I should have been King Leer. They rejected me, and I ended up doing this instead. It's an outrage! It's unheard of! It's… it's…"

"Casting by type?" suggested Holmes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"He was a rather unpleasant fellow," said Holmes.

"Lot of people are like that," said Bruce. "This time of year. This lousy time of year. You know, suicide rates go way up in December? Depression is at an all-time high."

"Now that, my friend," said Holmes, "is humbug."

He stopped and looked across the hallway. A piece of paper clinging to a small door read: "Mary Kissick as Belle."

"She should be worth talking to," said Holmes.

Just then, Quincy Ford, the carpenter, stepped out of Mary's dressing room.

"Please, don't disturb her, Mr. Holmes," said Ford. "She's really upset right now. Can't this wait."

"I understand your feelings, Mr. Ford," said Holmes. "But it's best that this is taken care of as soon as possible."

"I won't let you!" said Ford. "She's not herself right now."

"I really must speak to her."

Ford looked at his feet for a moment, deep in thought. Finally, he looked back at Holmes.

"Do you think you can go easy on her?" said Ford. "I just don't want her hurt any worse than she is now."

"I understand entirely, Mr. Ford," said Holmes. "I'll treat her with the utmost sensitivity. Master Wayne, perhaps it's best that you not come in with me."

Bruce was slightly offended. He opened his mouth to say that he could be very sensitive with women, which was not always true, but Holmes had already gone into the dressing room.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Mary Kissick's beautiful face had become a mess of watering make-up. Holmes offered her a handkerchief.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, my dear," said Holmes gently. "You're taking this very hard."

Mary just nodded and sobbed. Holmes began to blot her face with his handkerchief.

"You cared for him a great deal?"

Mary nodded.

"Did he care for you?"

"I… I… don't… know," she said between sobs. "I thought so. At least, I wanted to think so."

"You were in love with him?"

"I don't know," said Mary. "I was certainly charmed by him. He seemed so sensitive and so polite. But he was kind to all of the other women as well. Not just me."

"And how did this make you feel?"

"Does it really matter now?" screamed Mary. She collapsed into more sobbing. Holmes just waited patiently. He handed her his handkerchief and she accepted it.

"Ms. Kissick, the police will have to consider you a suspect in Sir William's death. They will have to since you were emotionally involved with him."

"But I didn't kill him!" cried Mary, bringing her fist down hard on her dresser. "I didn't!"

"I want to believe you, Mary," said Holmes. "But I need to know where you've been over the past three hours."

"I only got here two hours ago," said Mary. "George and Quincy saw me come in. They were putting some last minute touches on some of the props. Then Lisa and I…"

"Lisa?"  
"Lisa Craig. She plays Mrs. Cratchet. She and I helped each other with make-up and then we went to her dressing room and ran lines together." She began to sob again. "Now I'll have no one to love this Christmas."

"What about Mr. Ford?"

"Mr. Ford? Quincy?"

"I'm sorry. I thought he and you were…"

"Friends, nothing more," said Mary.

"I just noticed a good deal of affection in your relationship."

"We're very good friends," said Mary. "And very old friends. But nothing more."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Meanwhile, Bruce had knocked on the door to Sabrina Smith's dressing room, and he had found much encouragement to come inside. Sabrina threw her arms around him immediately, then pushed him back so she could look at his face.

"You and Mr. Holmes are looking into Sir William's murder?"

"Yes," said Bruce. "That must mean a lot to you, with you and him having a relationship and all."

"Why, Bruce, are you jealous?"

"No. I'm just getting my facts straight."

"I was allowing Sir William to become close to me," said Sabrina. "But not because he was charming or handsome, which, by the way, he wasn't. I wasn't falling in love with him. I just wanted him for his connections."

"You mean, in the acting world?"

Sabrina put her fingertips behind Bruce's ears and began to stroke gently to his chin and back.

"It would mean a lot to me if you could tell me who killed him."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes stepped out into the hallway. A moment later, Bruce exited Sabrina Smith's dressing room smiling.

"That doesn't look like Christmas cheer on your face," said Holmes.

"Maybe not," said Bruce. "But it's very infective."

Just then, George Clark appeared at the end of the hallway.

"How's the investigation coming?" he asked.

"We're making progress," said Holmes. "I don't believe I've heard your alibi yet."

"There's not much to hear," said Clark. "I arrived three and a half hours ago. Ford arrived half an hour later. We started doing touch-ups on the props and scenery. About fifteen minutes before the show started, I left Ford on his own, which made him furious. That stubborn carpenter! I then took my place in the house to watch my actors perform."

"Can anyone corroborate that?" Bruce asked.

"The lady I was sitting next to could have," said Clark. "But I sent her away, along with the rest of the audience. The Chief Inspector said that would be the most advisable thing to do."

"Thank you, Mr. Clark," said Holmes. "We'll call you if we make any more progress, or if we have anything to ask you."

As Clark turned and left, a ten-year old boy came hobbling down the hallway on a crutch, repeating over and over, "God bless us everyone!"

He crashed into Holmes and Bruce and yelled, "Watch we're you're going, will you?"

Bruce looked taken aback. Holmes merely went down on one knee, sinking to the boy's level.

"You must be Tiny Tim."

"Name's Freddie Byron," said the boy. "I'm only Tiny Tim in the play."

"Freddie Byron, the rising child star," said Holmes. "I've seen your performance as Oliver Twist. You must have quite an affinity for Dickens."

"Huh? Who?"

"Never mind. Just tell me, how well did you know Sir William Moore?"

"He's dead, ain't he? Serves him right, the old fart. I was just practicing my lines the other day, pretending to limp around on this crutch. And he bumped into me. Then he began cussing quite rudely."

"Have you seen Sir William tonight?"

"No," said Freddie. "But I know Mr. Ford was going to talk to him. I remember hearing Mr. Clark yell at Mr. Ford to tell William Moore his cue was coming. They were working on painting that ugly green thing back there." Freddie pointed. "Speaking of Mr. Ford, he ran into me quite rudely this evening, too."

"While you were pretending to limp on your crutch?" said Bruce.

"No!" said Freddie. "I'd been watching the show from backstage. Then Mr. Clark came out and told everyone to go home. A little while later, Ford runs into me. He throws me to the side saying he has to get to William Moore's room and he has to stop Mary."

Holmes looked at the green set piece behind him. He then looked at the stain on his hand.

"We've got matching colors," said Bruce, holding out his own paint-stained hand.

"No!" cried Holmes. "I can't be getting this slow in my old age! I should have seen it the whole time."

"Seen what?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Chief Inspector Gregson, Dr. Jamie Watson, George Clark, Quincy Ford, Bruce Wayne, and Sherlock Holmes were all gathered in the late Sir William Moore's dressing room.

"So, who killed Sir William?" Clark asked.

"I'll start with when Sir William was killed," said Holmes. "And that was about fifteen minutes before his body was discovered."

"But that's quite impossible," said Dr. Watson. "The condition of the body…"

"Was caused by exposure to cold," said Holmes. "This was in order to cause the body to appear as though death had occurred hours, rather than mere minutes earlier. Up until these few minutes, the killer had an airtight alibi. That killer was… Quincy Ford!"

"Me?" objected Quincy. "What ever would give you that idea?"

"Several things," said Holmes. "I thought it was strange when you hurried to this room for Mary Kissick. You wanted to shield her from the shock of Sir William's death, a shock you yourself should never have seen coming. But the most damning evidence is the paint smudge you left in here. You claimed you only came to the door when telling Sir William his cue was coming, but you must have actually come inside to leave that green stain."

"I could have left than at any time," said Quincy.

"No, you couldn't have," said Holmes. "The paint was still wet when my colleague discovered it. You told me that the paint stained easily but dried quickly. You couldn't have left that paint stain more than half an hour earlier than it was discovered."

"Why'd I kill him?"

"For your beloved Mary," said Holmes. "You had feelings for her. Romantic feelings. And the last thing you wanted was to see your beloved mistreated by another man. When you came in to tell Sir Williams was coming, you heard him talking to himself about how women were playthings to him, something you already resented. You couldn't stand to think of the way Mary Kissick would feel when she found out.

"Sir William Moore's prop chain was lying on his dresser. You grabbed it, leaving the paint stain on the desk. I'm sure the stain will be easy to find on the chain as well. You wrapped it around Sir William's neck, choking him to death.

"When you realized what you'd done, you knew you'd need a way to avoid suspicion. You knew a little bit about how time of death is established some how. You dragged the body out the side door into the cold snow. A few minutes later, you ran back in and dragged the body back into the room. It was discovered immediately after, and it was still cold. This gave you the perfect alibi. George Clark and you didn't get along. He wouldn't lie to protect you, so by honestly establishing your whereabouts for two hours earlier, you would avoid suspicion if the time of death was recorded as falling during that period."

"I can't believe I fell for it," said Dr. Watson.

"You had no way of knowing that stiffness and coldness was caused in this case by exposure to ice rather than death," said Holmes. "The autopsy would have given other indicators that Sir William was murdered more recently than previously thought. It was just a matter of time."

"All right," said Ford. "I'll go quietly. I didn't mean to do it, but I did. Something inside me just snapped."

"So much for peace on earth," muttered Bruce.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Immediately after arriving back at the cottage, Bruce began to climb up the stairs to his room.

"You're going to bed already?" asked Holmes.

"I'm going to my room," said Bruce. "Don't expect me out for a while?"

Holmes saw Bruce enter his room and heard the door slam. He climbed the stairs and entered the room.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"I just don't do Christmas," said Bruce.

"I don't understand," said Holmes. "Why not?"

"What's it matter to you?" said Bruce. "You keep Christmas in your way, and I'll keep it in mine."

"Why don't you want to celebrate Christmas?" asked Holmes.

"I can't," said Bruce. "I can't. Because I've seen and heard all the messages of what Christmas is supposed to be about. It's supposed to be about love and being with your family."

"That's what this is all about?" asked Holmes.

"Of course it is," said Bruce. He buried his chin in his pillow. "Christmas hasn't meant anything to me since my mom and dad died. They made Christmas into Christmas. They were loving and generous and joyous. Then somebody took them away from me."

"And you haven't celebrated Christmas since?"

"I have," said Bruce. "Alfred would celebrate with me. Some years he'd even wake me up at night, parading around in a Santa suit." Bruce laughed. "He made one skinny Santa. He'd make sure I got everything I wanted for Christmas. But not the thing I really wanted. Alfred couldn't bring me my parents back."

He sighed.

"I'm just afraid this year, without even Alfred, I'll have no family to celebrate with."

He buried his whole face in the pillow now.

"Maybe I'll talk to you again December 26th."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

December 25th, 1935.

Bruce was awakened by something different in the air. A different combination of sounds and smells.

Bruce slowly cracked open the door. The smell was stronger in the hall, and even stronger down the stairs. Bruce turned into the parlous. Right next to the entrance to the dining room was a tall evergreen, decorated in shiny bulbs and ornaments of gold and silver.

Around the tree were Sherlock Holmes, Chief Inspector Gregson, Dr. Jamie Watson, William Wiggins, and a stranger.

"Merry Christmas!" they all shouted.

"And you were worried you wouldn't have a family to spend Christmas with!" said Holmes.

Bruce came closer. Standing next to Wiggins was a very thin girl. She was much younger than Wiggins was, a couple of years younger than Bruce. She had long, stringy, dirty blonde hair. Her lips were full, red, and extremely sensuous. There was something in her eyes that was both naughty and nice.

"This is my sister, Screamer," said Wiggins.

"I'm Bruce," said Wayne, taking the blonde girl's hand gently.

Screamer giggled a high pitched, girlish giggle. Then she winked mischievously at Bruce, long eyelashes almost touching her cheeks.

"This is for you," said Jamie. She brought a brightly colored package out from under the tree and handed it to Bruce. He tore the wrapping open and lifted the box inside.

Opening the box, Bruce found a small but decorative clock. On the back was engraved, "From Dr. Watson, With Love."

"And this is from me," said Holmes. He brought a package out from beneath the tree. His wrapping paper wasn't as bright and colorful as Jamie's. In fact, it was old newspaper. But Bruce tore the paper away eagerly still. He found a box inside.

"At least it will keep your ears warm."

Inside the box was a leather cowl. Black.

"God bless you, Mr. Holmes," said Bruce.

And, as Freddie Byron joyfully observed, "God bless us, everyone!"

_**A/N –Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.**_

_**I might be back with another update in January. But I'm definitely taking the rest of December off.**_

_**In the meantime, have a blessed Christmas and joyous New Year.**_


	11. The Adventure of the Bird Man, Pt 1

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the trademarks or characters herein. I own no rights at all. Thank you._

**Frog1 _– Thank you for your offer. I do a little bit of research to try to keep the setting accurate, but just let me know when something doesn't fit its historical context._**

**O PolemArch_- You're right. My bad. I'll try to proofread these a little better from now on._**

_**A/N – I'm back. And I feel I need to apologize for taking so long to update. Although I'm often busy, the truth is I had plenty of spare time this January, but whenever I tried to coax myself into writing, I ended up turning on Internet Explorer rather than Microsoft Word and surfing the 'Net for hours.**_

_**Soon, I will be busy, but I still want to make up for being so slow on this update.**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**The Adventure of the Bird Man"**

January 27, 1936.

It was a typically chilly winter's night across England. The ground was covered in mounds of white. Bruce Wayne had decided this wasn't going to ruin his walk. He now changed his mind.

Since Christmas, he had cooperated with Sherlock Holmes on only one investigation. It hadn't been anything noteworthy. Bradley Dickinson of Dickinson Publishing merely came to Holmes with some questions regarding an anomaly in the company's finances, and Holmes had revealed the embezzler. Since then, January had been pretty uneventful.

Holmes was shaken by the ruler of the United Kingdom's death, a tragedy which had occurred less than a week earlier. A new King had risen to the thrown, and the nation was in mourning. Bruce, being a Yankee, shed no tears over the event. He had spent several nights away from Holmes this week. Most of those nights had been spent with Sabrina Smith.

Sabrina grew more and more intriguing to Bruce. She was definitely an enigma. The only number she gave Bruce was for a "friend" who would relay his messages to Sabrina. Sabrina would never allow Bruce to meet her at her address. Instead, they would go to restaurants or shops. Sabrina always insisted on paying for herself. Bruce didn't fight this too hard. His apprenticeship had just become a paid one, but the portion of the consultant fee Holmes allowed Bruce was just enough for him to buy some nice meals for himself.

Sabrina continued to be flirtatious, but at the same time she was surprisingly aloof. After all the time he had spent with her, Bruce realized their relationship hadn't progressed at all since they first met.

Still, the meeting had a euphoric effect on Bruce, who chose to walk home in the cold this night to clear his head. He didn't feel the temperature at all at first. Then he felt a small chill and was amused that he could see his own breath.

Then he started freezing and cussing.

Bruce heard the sounds of movement around him, making him more than slightly uncomfortable. Then the trees above erupted, releasing snow and a flock of big, black, winged creatures.

Crows. Well, at least they weren't bats. Bruce hated bats.

Then a person emerged from the trees. Bruce jumped up and was ashamed that he had to muffle a scream.

Then he looked at the person, shorter than he was, about two years younger. The other person appeared startled as well. His face was grotesque. There was a long, curved, flesh-colored beak where a nose should have been.

The beaked boy quickly pushed past Bruce and disappeared, leaving Bruce to wonder if it was just a trick of his imagination.

Then Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets and realized they were empty. The few coins he had been carrying had been stolen.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Not far away, Ciesel Manwell was turning around the sign in the window at the Pet-Me Pet Shop that said "Closed." He was suddenly stopped by a sound of tapping at the window.

Ciesel looked in the direction of the tapping and could see nothing. He turned his head and the tapping resumed. Again, he turned his head. Again, nothing.

Ciesel climbed down from the stool he used to reach the sign and walked to the window. He peered out, and then nearly screamed when something appeared in the window.

It was a crow. An average, ordinary black crow. Ciesel chuckled in relief.

Then the crow began tapping again. Another flew up alongside it. Then another. They were followed by some small sparrows and finches. Ciesel looked on in puzzled disbelief.

Then the glass window shattered. Ciesel didn't stop himself from screaming as the crows sunk their talons into him. He began waving his hand wildly as desperate tears filled his eyes. He then ran as quickly as possible outside, into the snow, screaming for help as he went.

Holmes woke Bruce up early to inform him that Chief Inspector Tobias Gregson of the Yard would be joining them for breakfast. He evidently had something important to discuss.

Bruce squeezed orange juice and fried eggs for himself and the guest while Holmes sliced and toasted his homemade bread. Soon, the table was set with silverware, plates, and Holmes' staple of fresh honey, and the Chief Inspector arrived.

Gregson didn't waste time with small talk. He sat down, broke the yolk of his egg with a piece of toast, and began to talk business.

"There's been a string of robberies over the past month," said Gregson. "Strange events. Right up your alley, Holmes."

"Do elaborate, Gregson," insisted Holmes.

"It's a bit awkward to explain," said Gregson. "Four local pet shops. Robbed by… birds?"

"You mean women, don't you?" said Bruce.

"I'd never use such terrible slang," replied Gregson. "I meant exactly what I said. Birds. We've taken all of their feathers as evidence if you'd like to study them."

"Not funny, Gregson," said Holmes.

"Not at all, Holmes," said Gregson. "You know me. I never joke about my work."

"How can birds steal?" asked Bruce.

"Maybe not them directly," said Gregson. "But they definitely played a part in the crimes. All the shopkeepers claim that flocks of birds entered their shop during closing time and chased them out of the store, leaving someone to burgle the cash registers and let all the animals free."

"Hmmm," said Holmes thoughtfully as he covered his toast in golden honey. "There are several suggestive points about this mystery, the most glaring being this: what are birds doing in England in late January? Shouldn't they have all migrated for more Southern climates?"

"We have an answer to that," said Gregson. "We have an answer to everything. Well, almost everything…"

"Stop being so mysterious, Gregson! Do tell."

"We've found out that a carnival arrived in this area about two weeks ago. The burglaries started the day after the carnival began. Anyway, one of the headliners is named Garret Jorgenson, better known as 'The BirdMan.' He does a show that involves different trained birds. And he doesn't have an alibi for the nights of any of the crimes."

"I take it this BirdMan is your primary suspect, then," said Holmes. "Why are you talking to me instead of him?"

"That's the thing," said Gregson. "It's sort of difficult to explain. I was hoping…"

"That Master Wayne and I would attend the carnival with you this afternoon," said Holmes. "Very well, Gregson. We could use the entertainment. But I'm not going to let you chalk this up as another personal favor. I must request my regular consultant fee, for Bruce's sake, of course."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce's eyes darted anxiously from left to right at he followed Gregson and Holmes around the carnival grounds. He was surrounded by noisy vendors, wild animals, and unreasonably muscular men carrying (or throwing, or juggling) sharp knives. Bruce saw a young boy, about ten years old, with a mother and father, laughing and eating cotton candy. The boy rested his head against his mother's waist.

Bruce looked away. When he turned, he saw what looked at first glance to be a man. Then he noticed the abnormally round and protruding breasts and deduced that she was actually a woman with a beard. And she was looking at Bruce lustfully. She winked and Bruce quickly looked away.

Bruce passed a hairy figure barely recognizable as a man and was reminded of the strange boy he had seen the other night.

Finally the timely trio arrived at the arena and took their seats. They were cold.

"Unusual thing, a winter carnival," muttered Holmes. "I admit that it's highly suspicious."

A man, the most normal looking of those Bruce had seen, with a large, curly mustache stepped out on stage and announced "Garret 'the BirdMan' Jorgenson."

The audience roared and a very beautiful woman in a tight pink dress stepped out on stage carrying several cages. She opened them and slowly, delicately placed several birds on their perches. She then stepped offstage and returned with a man in a wheelchair. The crowd roared even louder.

Bruce, Holmes, and Gregson watched in awe. By simply whistling, Jorgenson could make the birds fly through hoops, spin through the air like barnstormers, and even collect coins from select audience members' opened hands. The most amazing thing was Jorgenson did all of this without the use of his hands.

He didn't have any. Or feet, for that matter. Garret Jorgenson only had stumps where hands and feet should have been.

"You see our dilemma," said Gregson.

"Indeed," said Holmes.

"Is it possible he really does have arms and legs?" said Bruce. "And that he's just hiding them somewhere?"

"Perhaps you could talk to him and see for yourself," said Holmes. "Let's assume that his disability is genuine. He would need an accomplice to accomplish the thefts. His young assistant becomes the obvious suspect…"

"We've already talked to her," said Gregson. "Name's Wanda. Lovely girl. Has an alibi for three of the four burglaries."

"I see," said Holmes. "I congratulate you on having such an intriguing conundrum. I'd rather not talk with our suspects until I've had a chance to look at the scenes of the burglaries for myself."

"Very well," said Gregson. "Something can easily be arranged."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Gregson led Bruce and Holmes through the various pet stores that had been robbed, reminding Holmes repeatedly that his men had already lifted every significant trace of the crimes. Holmes ignored him and crawled on hands and knees around each shop. Finally, he allowed Gregson to take him to Scotland Yard and show him the evidence that had been harvested.

Holmes paid very little attention to the bags filled with feathers. He was more interested in a small button that had been found snagged on the drawer of the cash register of one of the scenes. With Gregson's permission, Holmes took the button from Scotland Yard's evidence department and brought it hometo hisSussex cottage.

Holmes studied the button under his microscope for mere seconds and then announced:

"This button came from the right sleeve of a short adolescent male who is currently a student at Hoshmeir Academy."

Bruce looked through the scope and then turned to Holmes incredulously.

"How can you tell?"

"The emblem of that prestigious academy is etched into the button. Hoshmeir is a boarding school for privileged young men and women, kept in dormitories on different ends of the schoolyard, naturally. This button comes from a sleeve of the school's uniform. The right sleeve, to be precise."

"How did you figure the rest of that stuff out?"

"I have my methods."

Bruce took a seat and looked at Holmes exasperatedly.

"And you think whoever robbed all of these pet stores came from this boarding school?"

"It's logical," said Holmes. "It would mean that Scotland Yard is looking at the wrong suspect. Wouldn't be the first time. Still, that requires us to consider the arrival of this BirdMan and his peculiar talents to be merely coincidence. And all coincidences must first be weighed against."

"I'll check on the carnies and leave you to check Hoshmeir," said Bruce.

"I'd rather you investigate the academy," said Holmes. "I noticed that Jorgenson's assistant was quite attractive."

The statement struck Bruce as funny, but a stern look from Holmes put a stop to his chuckling.

"You have not yet learned that feelings towards the opposite sex can bias judgement," said Holmes.

"I'm not biased!" insisted Bruce.

"Then explain your behavior towards Ms. Smith," said Holmes. "I'll give you directions to the academy in the morning. From there, I'm sure your considerable resources will come in handy."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Oswald Cobblepot, age 16, felt almost physically ill as he waddled into his class room.

"Ozzie!" called Jeph Horner. "Come sit by me!"

Ozzie Cobblepot knew today was going to be a long day, just like any day at Hoshmeir. He just couldn't understand why God had chosen to be so cruel to him. As if his obvious birth defects, a nose shaped rather more like a beak and two hands with webbed fingers, weren't bad enough, he also had to be short and chubby. When he walked down the aisle of desks in his class to sit by his friend, he waddled. He could hear all of his classmates softly cluck and quack as he waddled past them. He sat in the desk beside Jeph, hooking his umbrella to the arm of the attached seat, and prayed for death.

He played with the button on his uniform sleeve. He hated the uniform he and all of the other students were forced to wear. A black blazer over a white dress shirt with black shorts and black shoes. The black and white outfit, along with his beak, webbed flippers, and distinct waddle, lent itself to the jeers of "Penguin boy! Penguin boy!"

Then for P. E. they all wore baggy white T-Shirts with the school's emblem and similar black shorts. Then everyone took turns throwing dodge balls at Ozzie and Jeph.

Ozzie ignored the cruel whispers of his classmates and the droning voice of his teacher and focused his attention on Hayley Comely. Even the ugly uniform couldn't detract from Hayley's good looks. In fact, it only enhanced them, the tight shirt hugging her curves and the black skirt showing long, tan legs. She had eyes that were blue like bird eggs and raven black hair.

Ozzie often tried to think impure thoughts about Hayley and failed. He always ended seeing her at the opposite end of a snow covered field. He would smile and run towards her. She would smile and run towards him. The sunlight on her back gave her the radiant appearance of an angel.

Then she saw his face and hers twisted in disgust. She let out a scream and Ozzie lifted his head up.

"What's the answer, Mr. Cobblepot?" the teacher demanded, glaring at Ozzie.

Glaring as though he wanted to make the boy disappear simply be blinking and crushing the boy between his fierce eyelids.

"Uh… eh… William Shakespeare!" Ozzie called out anxiously. The class erupted into laughter and hooting and clucking and quacking.

"The answer is E equals M C 2," said the teacher.

Ozzie looked at Hayley. Her face twisted in disgust and she turned her head away.

A lump formed in Ozzie's throat and he wasn't sure he could hold the tears back.

"Freak!" his teacher muttered under his breath.


	12. The Adventure of the Bird Man, Pt 2

_DISCLAIMER – I own no rights whatsoever to Batman or to Sherlock Holmes. Period. Thank you._

**A/N_ - I know I already apologized for the lull between updates at the beginning of the last chapter, but I want you all to know that this project wasn't completely off my mind between updates. Over the past couple of months, I've read "The Forensic Files of Batman" by Doug Moench, "Batman: The Long Halloween" by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale, and "Batman: As the Crow Flies" by Judd Winick, Dustin Nyguen, and Richard Friend. I've also given "Batman Begins" yet another viewing and watched some episodes of "Batman: The Animated Series" that my younger brother was generous enough to provide on DVD. On top of all that, I've taken a Criminal Justice class and a few writing courses._**

_**All of that for you guys. Well, O.K. Actually, that stuff was for my enjoyment. But you can benefit from it, too.**_

_**This particular story is unique, as you know by this point, because more of Batman's world has entered Sherlock Holmes'. While telling the story of a young Bruce Wayne who has not yet become Batman, I couldn't resist the idea of telling the story of a villain that had not yet become a villain. After all, Batman's rogue gallery is, in my opinion, more impressive than that of any other super hero (with the possible exception of Spider-Man.)**_

**_My first choice of villain was Oswald "The Penguin" Cobblepot. Why? Because he, out of all of Batman's enemies, happens to be my sentimental favorite. I think the thing that's the most captivating about the character is actually he's the most sophisticated among the rogues. He's always sharply dressed, always in style, and he always has it totally together. Unlike the other villains who are frightening mainly due to their depraved psyches, Cobblepot is actually pretty sane. And the irony, the brilliant irony of it all, is that he is physically the most repulsive of the villains, despite being the most sophisticated. And, while other villains might have a freak accident to blame for their deformities, Cobblepot was the unfortunate victim of birth-related defects. _**

_**And although he was born ugly, I see no reason to believe he was born evil. At least, no more so than any other man. And there is no doubt that Cobblepot, looking the way he did, would be tortured by children, being so cruel.**_

Jeph followed Ozzie out to the schoolyard and immediately began to look for a hiding spot. The bullies would be coming after them soon. All the two friends wanted to do was survive until break time was over.

Jeph shivered in the winter cold. Ozzie, on the other hand, had said many times before that cold temperature didn't bother him. In fact, he liked it.

Ozzie was surprised to see the Headmistress walking alongside a stranger.

"Thank you again, Mr. Wayne," said the Headmistress. "You have no idea what this donation will mean to our academy."

"Well, I haven't made it yet. I'd like to get a good look at this place, first. Make sure this really is a worthy cause."

Holmes had been right. Bruce's resources did come in handy. All it took was a quick call to Alfred, who agreed to arrange for a large portion of the inheritance he had received from Dr. and Mrs. Wayne to be handed over to Hoshmeir Academy.

Bruce stopped in his tracks. He asked the Headmistress to excuse him and walked over towards a boy with a flesh-colored beak.

"Hey, you!"

"Me?"

"What's your name?"

"Oswald C. Cobblepot, sir. But my friends call me Ozzie."

"I'm Bruce Wayne. We met the other night."

"No, sir. I'm sure I'd remember that."

"We did. You picked my pocket."

"What a terrible thing to say, sir! I would do no such thing."

"You little liar!" snarled Bruce. "You took money from me. I want to talk to…"

The boy swung his umbrella hard at Bruce's gut and ran. Bruce looked up and was about to swear when he saw Ozzie and his friend being pushed from boy to boy in a circle, a few pretty young girls watching in interest.

Bruce started to walk over and then stopped. What could he do? These were kids. Even though they were only a few years younger than he was, he was now an adult. He had crossed a line. He wasn't going to fight a bunch of kids.

Bruce just sighed and walked away.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes sat in a tent across from a man in a wheelchair, sipping a hot cup of tea. He set it down and took a hard look at his companion.

"May I…?" he began.

"Go right ahead," said BirdMan. "Everyone else does."

Holmes set his cup down and rose to his feet. He then ran his hands over the stubs Jorgenson had in place of arms and legs.

"Satisfied?"

"Forgive me," said Holmes. "But I had to be certain for myself."

"I get that all the time," said Jorgenson. "Am I really a suspect in a crime?"

"The police think so," said Holmes. "You must admit, it seems a little convenient that these crimes should start upon your arrival in this area. Especially considering you provide your own birds."

"Of course," said Jorgenson. "They're specially trained. Even if I could find wild birds in this climate, my calls wouldn't be nearly as effective."

"Are the birds difficult to train and care for?"

"Not at all. Any seasoned bird lover with the correct resources can train the animals. It just takes a little love and care. And creating a shelter that resembles the South isn't hard."

"You do all of this on your own?"

"Of course not. I can do nothing on my own. Not since my accident. I can't eat, move, bathe, even use the toilet like a regular man. For everything I do, I require assistance."

Just then an extremely curvaceous woman with sparkling eyes and fire engine red hair, wearing a tight, bright red dress, entered. Holmes rose to his feet and tugged at his collar. Even his judgment could be slightly biased in the presence of an attractive redhead.

"This is my lovely assistant, Cady," said Jorgenson.

"I thought your lovely assistant's name was Wanda," said Holmes. "And that she was a brunette."

"That's his other assistant," said Cady with a smile and a giggle that made it clear she was much, much too young for him. She held out her hand and Holmes kissed it.

"I use two assistants," said Jorgenson. "This way, one can take care of me while the other has time for herself. They alternate shows."

"All of the shows Gregson saw must have involved Wanda," said Holmes, stroking his long chin. "This changes things."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Ozzie stepped through the broken wall of the abandoned warehouse and found Jeph already waiting for him. This was their secret hideout. A place for just the two of them.

Ozzie and Jeph were two friends who, if it weren't for each other, would be loners. Both knew what it was like to fail to find acceptance. Before Ozzie had arrived at Hoshmeir, Jeph had been the preyed-upon freak. He was thin and wiry, with ears that were too big and small eyes that were dwarfed even further by the lenses of coke-bottle glasses. Jeph also was an asthmatic, and, the thing that made him more hated that any other, a science geek.

Ozzie was a freak with a misshapen nose and webbed fingers. Everybody ridiculed him, with the exception of Jeph, who already knew what it was like to be the victim of ridicule, never at the other end. It was only natural that the school's two biggest rejects become a duo. And this was their secret clubhouse, the only place in the world where they were more popular than anyone else.

The wall behind Jeph was lined with different umbrellas. Ozzie had been tempted many times to go somewhere without one, but he always felt that would give his mother the excuse she needed not to love him. At least carrying around different umbrellas on different occasions was cooler than carrying the same old umbrella all the time, at least in Ozzie and Jeph's eyes. And Jeph, the science geek, had found a way to make them even cooler.

He had wanted some everyday objects he could experiment with modifying, and his best friend Ozzie had been happy to supply him with umbrellas. Jeph made them into machines. Not complicated machines. Just umbrellas that launched fireworks and umbrellas that fired blank bullets and umbrellas that doubled as squirt guns.

Jeph was already feeding the birds.

"Do you really think they'll make it?" asked Jeph.

"They've got a better chance here with us than if we'd just let them go," said Ozzie. "Hey! Be gentle!"

He carefully plucked the tiny bird out of Jeph's hand.

"Love and care. That's the only way they'll make it," said Ozzie. "They could barely even fly when we found them. They'd never have made it south in time."

He carefully put the bird back in its insulated shelter and pulled a large veil back to cover the bird abode.

Jeph sat down, and Ozzie sat down beside him. Ozzie pulled his notebook out from its hiding place. He then turned to his latest sketch and began to add to it.

"It's so damn hard to hold a pen with these fingers," he whined.

"What are you working on?" asked Jeph, like he had so many times before. Ozzie just held the notebook to his chest. Jeph leaned forward and Ozzie pushed him back.

"What's that?" asked Jeph suddenly.

Ozzie heard the unmistakable sound of wooden boards creeking. He and Jeph scrambled to the safety of a pile of crates, which they hid in the midst of.

Two men with fedoras entered. They were holding guns. Jeph began to breathe heavily.

"Jeph, don't!" whispered Ozzie. "Calm down."

One of the men began to look around corners and poke objects with his gun. Jeph began to breath heavier and faster. Ozzie spread the webbing between his fingers and covered Jeph's mouth. Jeph began to squirm panicked.

The man joined the other, and they both bent down and pried a board off of the floor. The man then grabbed a sack that had been next to his feet and dumped the contents into the ground. The other did the same. Then both men turned and left.

Ozzie kept covering Jeph's mouth until he was sure that the men were gone. He then left his hiding place, leaving a blue-faced Jeph to collapse to the ground and wheeze.

Ozzie's eyes lit up as he removed several loose boards only inches away from where he and Jeph often sat.

"Jeph, we're rich," said Ozzie. "We've found a hidden treasure."

Jeph crawled over, breathing into a paper bag.

"Oh, Jeph, I'm sorry."

Jeph just shook his head. He looked down at the green bills and gold coins.

"Everything we've always wanted," said Ozzie. "Just for us. No one else has to know."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"She's a very attractive woman," said Holmes, looking at a picture of Cady in a not-so-modest bathing suit. Harold Riley took the picture from Holmes and set it back in its place. "How did you two meet?"

"Went to see the carnival when it came around a couple of years," said Harold. "Went to laugh at the freaks, and fell in love with an extraordinary exhibitionist. She writes me while traveling, and we see each other every time she's in town. What's it to you?"

"I'm just taking care of some formalities," said Holmes. "I'm assisting the police in a criminal investigation, and Cady has named you as her alibi during two of the crimes. I'd just like you to confirm the facts."

"Yeah," said Harold, after Holmes had given him the nights of the crimes. "She was here both of those times."

"What did the two of you do?"

"We stayed up late and had dinner," said Harold. "Had some laughs. She'd always be exhausted the next day."

"How do you know that?" asked Holmes. Harold became flustered, causing Holmes to turn a little red himself.

"What did you have for dinner?" he asked.

"Both nights?"

"Just the most recent, really."

"Can't remember."

"For two sweethearts who hardly ever see each other, I would imagine it was something special."

"I can't remember, okay? Would you, after… eh…?"

Holmes took another look at the photograph.

"No," he said. "I don't suppose I would."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Another day at Hoshmeir Academy. Ozzie felt like he could fly.

Today was going to be another painful day in the schoolyard until Ozzie saw Hayley Comely talking to a distinguished couple. He suddenly felt drawn to be with these people.

The man kissed Hayley on the cheek.

"We're so proud of you, precious," said the woman.

Ozzie gathered up all of the courage he could muster and choked out, "Hi, Hayley."

Hayley turned and gave Ozzie the disapproving look she usually did. The man and woman looked Ozzie up and down, unsure of what to say. After a few confused utterances, the woman finally said, "Hayley, dear, who's your friend?"

"Oh," said Hayley. "This is Oswald."

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance," said Ozzie excitedly. He held out his hand, then looked at it. He became embarrassed and quickly retracted his outstretched hand.

"You seem like a very nice young man," said Mrs. Comely.

"He is," Hayley agreed. She kissed her mother and father.

"Thank you again for coming to see me," she said.

"We had to be there when you received your award," said Mr. Comely. "We're so very proud of you. Good bye, precious." He kissed her again. "Good bye, Oswald."

Ozzie thought his heart would escape his chest. Hayley's mother had called him Hayley's friend. And, best of all, Hayley hadn't denied it! Maybe she did like him, after all.

And her parents seemed so nice! They already knew his name. They accepted him. Ozzie decided he liked his future in-laws.

A few minutes later, Ozzie's hopes deflated. He had wandered away from his beloved for just a moment. He then saw her talking to another man in an expensive suit, this one not much older than him. Even from a distance, Ozzie could tell Hayley was blushing and squirming. When he came closer, he could hear her giggling.

As the man walked away from Hayley, Ozzie recognized him as the man who had been to the school the day before.

"What are you doing back here?" Ozzie demanded.

"I was delivering a donation to the school," said Bruce. "I presented the check during the awards assembly."

"My class wasn't part of that assembly," Ozzie said. He felt more than a tinge of jealousy. He wanted to hit this man. Hit him hard.

"Oswald, I want to talk to you…," said Bruce. Ozzie just snarled and began to walk away.

Suddenly, Bruce reached out his hand and grabbed Ozzie's right wrist. Ozzie began to squawk like a parrot.

"What are you doing?" Ozzie demanded.

"Do you wear the same uniform every day?" asked Bruce.

"Yes," said Ozzie. "We're required to wash it each night. How is that your concern?"

Bruce let go.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

**A/N – _Don't worry. That's not the end. This story is simply too epic to be contained in only two chapters. Therefore, for the first, and possibly only, time, there will be a third chapter to this adventure._**


	13. The Adventure of the Bird Man, Pt 3

_Disclaimer: I own no rights to Batman or Sherlock Holmes or related characters or trademarks. That aside…_

Jeph arrived at the secret meeting place after Ozzie did. Ozzie was holding a thick cigar in one hand and a tall bottle of wine in the other. Jeph sat down beside him and took a cigar. He coughed between puffs.

Ozzie took out a folded piece of paper.

"What are you reading?" Jeph asked him.

"A letter from my mom," said Ozzie. "I really miss her."

After finishing the letter, Ozzie placed it in his blazer pocket and removed his sketch book from its place.

"What are you working on?" Jeph asked.

"How many times do I have to tell you that it's none of your business?"

Jeph grabbed the sketch book and pulled on it. Ozzie pulled back. Jeph tugged harder and the book flew into his lap.

Jeph gasped as he flipped through the sketches. Hayley Comely in angelic garb and halo. Hayley Komiski in wedding dress. Hayley Comely in slinky underwear . . .

Ozzie smacked Jeph. Hard. He smacked him again and Jeph's nose started to bleed.

"Get out of here!" screamed Ozzie, picking up his sketchbook and throwing it across the room. "Get out of here! And don't come back!"

Ozzie buried his head in his webbed fingers as Jeph cowered away.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce Wayne arrived at the fair grounds and made his way again through the winter carnival. Try as he might to avoid the bearded lady, he saw her looking over the top of a small tent and staring hard at him. Bruce felt queasy all over again.

He arrived at the exhibition tent where Jorgenson would be doing his show and Holmes would meet him. After a few minutes, Bruce saw a familiar person in the crowd, and it wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

"Oswald?" said Bruce, approaching the young man.

"What do you want with me now?"

"It's just that I didn't expect to see you here," said Bruce. "You're not…"

"One of the carnies?" said Ozzie. "Is that what you were going to say? No. I'm not."

"I'm sorry," said Bruce. "I didn't mean to imply anything."

"It's all right," said Ozzie. "I actually feel more like I belong around here than anywhere else. Do you suppose the way people think of you can affect who you are?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I feel the most comfortable around freaks. When I was younger, I would have thought they were scary. I would have considered myself normal. But I'm not, and I can tell by the way people look at me. They think I'm some kind of monster. Some kind of freak. And the funny thing is, when people treat you like a freak long enough, you begin to believe you are one. After a while you accept it. I now consider it a cold, hard fact. I'm a freak."

"No, you're not."

"You're still in denial, Mr. Wayne. I'm definitely a freak."

"Look," said Bruce slowly, "I'm sorry about what happened the other day."

"You mean, with you and Hayley?"

Bruce just looked puzzled. Clearly, Hayley was no big deal to him, though she was a huge deal to Ozzie, who felt his cheeks redden.

"I meant with those bullies," said Bruce. "I should have done something."

"It wasn't your business."

"No. You shouldn't be treated like that. I'd like to help you."

"How?"

"I'll teach you how to defend yourself. Show you some fighting moves or something."

"Why do you care? We're nothing alike."

"I think we have more in common than you know," said Bruce. "I think we both know what it's like to be lonely."

"Mr. Cobblepot?"

The two boys looked up and saw Jorgenson looking out at them.

"Why if it isn't the Great Cobblepot!" cried Jorgenson. "Come, my young friend!"

"You know him?" asked Bruce.

"I met him when the carnival first arrived in town," said Ozzie. "We both have an interest in birds."

Bruce watched Ozzie climb on stage and take his place beside Wanda.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Cady was not wearing her stage costume. She was wearing an even more provocative outfit that was making it hard for the great Sherlock Holmes to concentrate.

"What do you need from me, Mr. Holmes?"

"The truth," Holmes said simply.

"But I've already told you everything I know."

"I'm just making certain you won't change your mind. I talked to your friend Mr. Riley."

"And?"

Holmes said nothing.

"And?"

"And," Holmes said slowly, "he confirms your alibi."

Cady breathed a sigh of relief.

"Just one more question," said Holmes. "What did you have for dinner? The last time you saw Mr. Riley?"

"I can't really remember," said Cady. "Nothing special."

"Thank you," said Holmes.

He left the tent, Cady following behind him, and waved at Bruce. Bruce walked towards him and Cady began to walk away.

"Who's she?"

"Jorgenson's assistant," said Holmes.

"But I thought…"

"He has two."

Bruce looked from Wanda to Cady and back to Wanda again.

"Do you have their telephone numbers?" asked Bruce.

"Of course," said Holmes. "For investigative purposes."

"I don't suppose you'd mind…"

"I would," said Holmes firmly. "I would mind _terribly_."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce dropped the side of his hand gently on Ozzie's shoulder. Ozzie flinched and then turned towards Bruce. He kicked. Bruce grabbed his short leg and pushed it back. Ozzie punched and Bruce blocked it. Bruce punched and Ozzie blocked it.

Bruce and Ozzie slowly backed away from each other. Bruce kicked. Ozzie dodged. Bruce came closer and softly punched Ozzie's shoulder.

Ozzie punched back. Bruce was surprised by how strong his opponent was.

Bruce punched Ozzie. Ozzie punched back, harder. He swung again. This time, Bruce grabbed the arm as it swung towards him. Ozzie chopped with the other hand and hit Bruce's other arm. Bruce stepped back and rubbed his shoulder.

Neither said anything. They just began circling each other. Like birds.

Bruce lunged forward. Ozzie brought his hand down on Bruce's neck. It hurt. Bruce grabbed for Ozzie's middle. He tackled him to the ground. Ozzie rolled out from Bruce's grip and kicked Bruce in the ribs.

Bruce lay on the ground for a minute, panting to catch his breath. Ozzie helped him to his feet.

"Good," Bruce gasped. "That's enough for now."

He motioned towards the house.

"Come inside," he said, still between gasps. "We need to warm up."

Ozzie was reluctant at first, but Bruce insisted. Snow melted and dripped onto the carpet as the two entered the warm cottage, a fire already blazing inside.

"Can I get you something to eat? Drink?" Bruce asked. Ozzie said nothing. He just looked around him. Bruce went to the kitchen. Ozzie followed.

"Is this your place?" asked Ozzie.

"No."

"Your parents?"

"I'm an orphan."

"Oh."

"My parents were murdered when I was 10."

"Oh."

Bruce looked for a way to change the topic.

"This is my friend Mr. Holmes' place," he said.

"Mr. Holmes?" said Ozzie. "As in Mr. _Sherlock_ Holmes? The famous detective."

"That's him."

"Wow!" said Ozzie, jaw dropped in amazement. "I can't believe you actually know Sherlock Holmes."

Bruce placed a buttered slice of honey wheat bread in front of Ozzie, along with a cup of hot tea.

"What about your parents?" he asked.

"They're amazing," said Ozzie. "They knew I would be born with birth defects. Everyone said my mother should have abandoned me."

"How do you know that?"

"Because they still say she should have. They look right at me and say it."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. My mother refused to let me go. People said that my parents should throw me in the sewers. They said they should get rid of me before I ruined my parent's image. See, the Cobblepot family is one of the most important in all of Chicago."

"What are you doing here?" asked Bruce. "So far from them."

"They didn't send me here because they wanted to get rid of me, if that's what you're thinking!"

"I didn't say…"

"They sent me here to keep me out of trouble."

"What sort of trouble?"

Silence fell. Bruce took a long, slow sip of his tea.

"I used to know a man named Melvin Kennard," said Ozzie. "He was like a mentor to me. Owned a pet shop. He'd let me come in and play with the animals. I'd help him take care of them. Especially the birds."

Ozzie paused and took a bite from his bread. Bruce watched him chew and waited for him to go on.

"People would look at me like I was some kind of animal," Ozzie continued. "But the animals would look at me like I was a person."

He paused again. Bruce thought he could hear crickets, forgetting it was winter. He was reminded when he looked out the window and saw snow falling.

"Then a local gang started a fire in the pet shop," said Ozzie. "Melvin was inside. He had to be put in the hospital. Nearly died. But I knew the gang. They picked on me all the time. Suddenly, I wasn't scared of them anymore. I found the gang, I punched the leader, and then I kept hitting him, pushing his head into the asphalt. He bled. He almost died before the cops found us."

Ozzie sighed.

"That's why I'm here. My mother kissed me good bye and gave me my first umbrella. She told me the weather was terrible in London and if I wanted to avoid getting sick I'd carry it with me everywhere, no matter what the weather looked like, no matter where I was going." He patted the umbrella at his side. "Now I always think of my mom when I carry an umbrella."

Bruce was stunned. He just sat and looked out the window when another figure appeared.

"That's my friend Jeph," said Ozzie. "I told him he could meet me here. I've got to go now. Thanks for everything, Bruce."

Bruce followed Ozzie outside and watched him walk away. As he looked at Jeph, something struck him as odd. He tried to figure out what it was, but he could see nothing. His instinct, his subconscious, was acting to quickly for his conscious mind to catch up with.

Bruce went back inside and stepped into Holmes' study.

Holmes was looking intently at a piece of paper he had added to the wall with a thumb tack. Even if he wasn't looking directly at it, it would have been obvious he was interested in it since it was suspended by tack rather than knife.

Bruce took a look at the paper. It appeared like so.

W C

January 14 (X)()

January 17 (X)(X)

January 22 ()(X)

January 27 (X)()

W Wanda Blackstone

C Cady Scarlett

X Whereabouts Accounted For

"Still trying to figure out how a man with no arms or legs can commit burglary four times?" asked Bruce.

"If he did, he needed an accomplice. Most likely one of his assistants. But, as you can see, they both have alibis."

"Perhaps Wanda and Cady took place in different burglaries. One would have an alibi while the other robbed the pet store."

"But they both have an alibi for the 17th. However, both of them were supposedly on separate dates with their paramours, and it's not uncommon for lovers to lie to protect each other."

"Or maybe the BirdMan wasn't involved at all."

"Your investigations at Hoshmeir have uncovered something, I take it?"

"His name's Oswald Cobblepot. He's great with animals, especially birds. He's even a protégé of Jorgenson's. Also, he has a painful memory from his earlier childhood that involves a pet store."

"Which would explain the psychological motive to target such establishments."

"But…"

"But what?"

"I just can't help feeling sorry for the kid. He's deformed and he's ridiculed for it. His classmates call him 'bird boy' and 'penguin.' "

"It's not unusual for you to sympathize with a criminal," said Holmes. "Criminals are people, too. No one is all good or all evil, Master Wayne. You must never lose your ability to empathize with your adversaries. Remember they're human. Only then will you be able to understand the criminal mind."

"But he wasn't missing a button from his right sleeve."

"I couldn't see very clearly out the window, but the other young man he was with seemed to be missing a button."

"No. I noticed he had all of his buttons."

"But the button on his right sleeve cuff was differently colored than all the others. It was a replacement button rather than an official Hoshmeir Academy one."

Bruce gasped, now realizing what his subconscious had detected.

"You mean… you think… those two…"

He was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. A few minutes later Holmes announced that it was William Wiggins and that he would have to leave right away.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes stepped inside Wiggins' office alone, leaving Bruce in the corridor with Wiggins' sister. As Bruce looked into her eyes, he realized they really were more naughty than nice. She smiled and he smiled back.

"So, why do they call you Screamer?" he asked.

"You'll have to find out for yourself," she replied.

"It was nice meeting you on Christmas."

"I've missed you since."

"Why don't you tell me a little bit more about yourself?"

Screamer gave Bruce the same look the bearded lady had given him, only he enjoyed it this time. That's when the door opened and Holmes stepped out.

"Excuse us, Miss Wiggins," he said. "I'd like to talk to my associate alone."

"What is it?" Bruce asked, after Screamer had left.

"Kyle Kimmerick," said Holmes. "He's one of the most notorious criminals in all of London. Part of an extremely powerful crime syndicate. I've asked Wiggins to keep me updated on all information regarding Kimmerick's movements. Today, Kimmerick actually came into Wiggins' office to consult him."

"What about?"

"Kimmerick explained that some money had gone missing from his savings. He didn't say where his savings were normally kept, but it's likely he was referring to the syndicate's ill-gotten gains. He offered Wiggins a large sum of money to locate whoever had taken the savings. This was the only lead he offered."

Holmes handed Bruce a book. Bruce flipped through it, studying the sketches on each page.

"I recognize this girl," he said. "She's a student at Hoshmeir Academy. I think Oswald has some kind of crush on her."

"Really, Mr. Wayne. _You think?_"

"We've got to find him, fast! Before Kimmerick can!"

"I'll have to study this book more closely at my lab."

"There's no time for that! What can you tell me about it now?"

Holmes didn't lose his calm demeanor, even though Bruce was becoming more and more aggravated. In fact, Holmes took on an even more reassured mood, calming Bruce a little.

"The book is covered in dust, even though the latest inkings occurred more recently than the amount of time it should take for dust to gather. Therefore, the dust must not have gathered on the book, but rather the book was tossed in a pile of dust that had already collected. This book came from someplace that has fallen out of maintenance, in some rather lowly area. I'd say Whitechapel or Soho."

Holmes studied a few more pages.

"The materials these pages have been exposed to lead me to believe Soho."

Bruce ran for the door. Holmes grabbed him by the arm and pressed something into his hand.

"You'll need this."

"No!" said Bruce. As he looked down the length of the revolver, all he could see was the faces of his parents, frozen in fear.

"Kimmerick is a dangerous man," said Holmes. "You'll need to be armed."

"I don't like guns," said Bruce, starting to tremble. "They're evil things. Please, take it away."

"Perhaps you'd prefer this."

Holmes removed a riding crop from the inside of his cloak.

"It's a preferred weapon of mine," he said. "But I'd still like you to carry the revolver."

Bruce nodded, reluctantly pocketed the gun, and accepted the riding crop.

"Let's go."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Ozzie was sitting with his head between his knees, a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand, when Jeph found him in their clubhouse.

"I'm sorry," Jeph said.

"Don't be. I can't even find that stupid sketch book anymore. I'm glad it's gone."

"Ozzie, what happened?"

"I talked to Hayley today. She told me she never liked me the way I liked her." Tears began to form in his eyes. "She told me she didn't want me around her anymore. She said she never had. Then she called me a freak. She called me a stupid penguin!"

Ozzie began to weep. His friend quickly crawled up beside him and embraced him.

Then the two boys heard footsteps and looked up. They saw the men in fedoras again. This time it was too late to run.

"Freeze, kids!" one of the men yelled.

Ozzie squeezed a trigger on an umbrella stick. There was a bright flash, and everyone in the room was blinded.

The sounds of gunshots could be heard even during the blinding light. When the light cleared, Ozzie pulled the trigger on an identical umbrella. This time, the top of the umbrella flew forward. Two men grabbed the edges as the top flew towards them and lost their balance, falling towards the ground together.

Ozzie grabbed the nearest man by the arm and twisted it. The man shrieked and dropped his gun. Ozzie spun and kicked another man coming near him, then turned and punched the man he had disarmed in the gut.

Ozzie turned to the other man to see an elbow crashing down on the fedora man's shoulder. Bruce Wayne was standing there. Bruce turned to another thug and punched him in the stomach as Ozzie did the same thing to another.

More men with guns were entering. Bruce pushed Ozzie to the ground and then somersaulted forward, standing up between two men. He rapidly punched the man in front of him and brought his arm back to elbow the man behind him. He then jumped and kicked the gun out of another's hand.

Then more men with guns entered.

"Freeze! Police!"

The men refused to freeze. They began firing on the police officers. Bruce took the riding crop and rapidly struck as many hands that were holding guns as he could. He then swung the crop through the air and struck a man who was coming up behind him in the face.

As he did this, another man came up alongside Bruce and kicked him in the thigh. Bruce gasped and grabbed his side. The man kicked again, lower this time. Bruce tensed up and the man grabbed the arm holding the crop. He wrestled the crop from Bruce and threw it across the room. With his free arm, Bruce pulled out the revolver Holmes had given him and hit his attacker as hard as he could in the head.

Bruce turned to look for Oswald but found Jeph instead. Jeph was lifting an umbrella and aiming it at one of the criminals. A spike hurtled from the umbrella and caught the man in the arm. Unfortunately, it wasn't the hand the man was holding a gun in. The wounded gangster pulled back the hammer.

Bruce pointed his revolver at the man's head as quickly as he could. He knew he could fire and stop the criminal right there. His throat tightened and he began to sweat.

"Don't!" he tried to scream.

The man fired and the boy cried out and fell to the ground.

Bruce pulled the trigger and watched the man die.

Everything began to blur. Bruce felt worse than sick. He felt like he was drowning in the sweat, choking on his own throat. He dropped to his knees and Holmes walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright now, Master Wayne," he said. "The police have everything under control."

Holmes walked to the body of the man Bruce had shot.

"Gentlemen, look!" he called.

Chief Inspector Gregson and Detective Inspector Hopkins shuffled their way to the spot where Holmes was standing.

"It's Kimmerick," Holmes said.

"You said there was something else," said Gregson. "Something to do with the pet store burglaries."

Ozzie was back in his hiding place in the midst of the crates, looking in horror at the body of his fallen friend and the slain bird carcasses all around him.

"Yes, Chief Inspector," Holmes was saying. "Note your feathers, all over the ground here. These were the birds responsible for the burglaries."

"You mean Kimmerick and his men…?" began Hopkins.

"Not at all," said Holmes. "Two young boys."

"Oh, my Lord," said Gregson. Holmes and Hopkins followed Gregson to where he bent over Jeph's body and felt for a pulse.

"He's so young," said Hopkins. "Almost looks like my son."

"Poor child," said Gregson.

"He and a friend trained the birds and stored the money they stole in here," Holmes explained. "They used the money to pay for prostitutes, wine, and cigars."

"Why those things?" asked Bruce.

"They're items that represent desirability, privilege, and high standing. Things the boys lacked." He began to move around the room.

"Unfortunately," he continued. "The boys had no idea they were storing their loot in the same place Kimmerick and his cronies were. The boys happened upon the syndicate's money…"

"Resulting in this bloodbath," said Hopkins.

"Where's the other boy you speak of?" asked Gregson.

Ozzie watched with growing trepidation as Holmes began to scrutinize every inch of the room. He began to tremble. He looked over his shoulder and was about to sprint out a hole in the wall behind him. Then he took another look ahead and froze.

Sherlock Holmes, deerstalker and all, was peering right at him.

Holmes smiled at Ozzie.

"I see no trace of him," he said. "He must have eluded us."

Holmes moved away from the crates and Ozzie ran as fast as he could. He kept seeing Sherlock Holmes' face as he ran. Was the smile sincere, or was it condescending? Was Sherlock Holmes trying to tell him that he had power over him now, that he would never be able to get away with another crime again?

Ozzie wouldn't give him that satisfaction. He was in charge of his own life.

Ozzie finally stopped and put his hands on his knees. He was panting, trembling, and crying. Jeph Horner, the only person who had ever loved and accepted Ozzie, was now dead. Ozzie had nothing left.

Jeph needed to be avenged. But who could Ozzie blame for the death? He remembered the gangsters. And he remembered the police.

Right there and then, Ozzie decided he would one day have power over those kinds of men. He would be able to invoke the type of fear in others, power over others, that Kyle Kimmerick had. He would be rich and successful, like Hayley Comely and her family.

Hayley didn't matter anymore. Only one person in the whole world mattered. Oswald C. Cobblepot. He would control men like those he had seen today. He would have wealth and position and everything he desired. After all, the BirdMan had triumphed in spite of his deformities. He had two extremely beautiful women attending to his every need. Ozzie would achieve that type of glory.

All he needed was a place to start. Ozzie looked at the possessions he had taken from Bruce on January 27th. He found a card for the North Branch Library in Gotham City.

Gotham. That would be the perfect place.

Ozzie clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. He would go back to school. He would graduate. And then nothing would stop him.

**A/N – _Thus ends our epic three-part "Adventure of the Bird Man." I guess I'm giving up on writing short chapters._**

_**Please review. Let me know what you thought of this story. I'm very busy, and although I love writing these stories, they take time. And it won't be worth my time to write chapters no one wants to read.**_


	14. The Adventure of the Golden Fox, Pt 1

_Disclaimer: None of the titles, trademarks, or characters (with the exception of OC's) are mine._

_**A/N – It has been a long, long time since my last update, and I want to apologize profusely.**_

_**I have been busy for the past four or five months since my last chapter. I mean busier than you could possibly believe, so just believe me when I say I have been busy.**_

**_Anyway, I'm back now, and I want to try and make up for my long absence. I was tempted to just let this fanfic go, but there's so much I've set up in earlier chapters that I want to see through to their conclusion. Also, our last chapter was the 13th. Although I'm not usually superstitious, it kind of made me uneasy to leave it at that. _**

**_This fanfic was only intended to run for a year, but this month would mark about the time a year ago that I began writing this. As I don't want to rush this fanfic to an ending when I think there's still potential in it, I am giving up attempting to write this fanfic somewhat in real time as I have been. Instead, the following is set in February, the month during all of which I intended to write the following chapter._**

_**So, after my long absence, "The Mystery of the Dark Knight" continues with…**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**_The Adventure of the Golden Fox"_**

February 7th, 1936.

Every time Bruce closed his eyes, he would see down the barrel of a gun. A shot would ring out, and then Jeph Horner, a mere boy, would be lying on the ground in front of Bruce, a pool of blood surrounding him. Bruce tried to shake away the image, tried to remind himself that he had been trying to save the boy's life. It wasn't Jeph he had killed. It was Kyle Kimmerick, a dangerous criminal, the man who had killed Jeph.

_Shouldn't that thought comfort me? _Bruce thought. _Shouldn't I feel some kind of closure from avenging that boy?_

But he didn't. For a brief second he would remember that the gun was aimed at Kimmerick, who was in turn aiming a gun at Jeph Horner. But then Kimmerick would disappear, and Bruce would see the gun aimed at Jeph, and then Jeph would die.

And then, still seeing down the barrel of a gun, Bruce would see the mangled bodies of his parents.

When Bruce's eyes snapped open, he saw Screamer's lustful eyes gazing back. They were definitely naughty. Screamer giggled softly and Bruce felt a touch against his ankle.

Bruce was dressed casually for what Holmes promised would be a restful meal at the Wiggins' household. Screamer seemed out of place, dressed more formally than Bruce had ever seen her before. Still, Screamer's outfit wasn't quite high-society. The ill-fitting black dress had a neckline that began too low and a hem that ended too high.

The touch moved up Bruce's leg and Bruce realized he was feeling Screamer's foot.

"Don't you agree, Wayne?" said Holmes.

Even Holmes was dressed more casually than usual, wearing a simple gold silk shirt and a pair of black trousers.

Bruce felt embarrassed, having tuned out the dinner conversation around him.

"Agree with what?"

"With Rudyard Kipling?" said Holmes.

"I certainly do," said Screamer, smiling flirtatiously at Bruce.

"What did he say?" Bruce asked.

"That the female of the species is deadlier than its mate," said Willy Wiggins.

Bruce just nodded and returned to his meal. Then he felt the touch on his thigh. He dropped his fork, which clattered loudly against his plate. _Crrchrcknk!_ Bruce cringed as the others looked at him.

"I'd like to speak with you privately now, Wiggins," said Holmes. "As we discussed earlier."

"Of course," said Willy Wiggins, pushing his chair from the table and rising to his feet. "Screamer, you'll keep Mr. Wayne entertained, won't you?"

"I certainly hope so," said Screamer, smiling mischievously. Her eyes took on another level of naughtiness.

Screamer pushed back her chair as Sherlock Holmes and her older brother ascended the stairway. After the two men had vanished, Bruce rose from his. He and Screamer looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Screamer crept towards Bruce.

Within inches of Bruce, Screamer's creeping turned into a run. She grabbed Bruce and shoved him forcefully into the nearest wall. Before Bruce could react, Screamer rose to her tiptoes and planted her lips against his.

Screamer held the kiss for a moment before releasing Bruce. Bruce looked at the lust in Screamer's eyes and then returned the kiss. He grasped her shoulder and massaged the soft flesh as she massaged his lips with hers.

Bruce squeezed harder on Screamer's shoulder as he tasted her tongue. Bruce stumbled back from the wall as the kiss and the embrace grew more passionate. He turned in the air and then fell towards the wall, running Screamer into it. The blonde girl removed her mouth from Bruce's and let out a high-pitched shriek. Then she giggled her girly, coquettish giggle once more.

"Oh, Bruce! Again! Again!"

She let out another high-pitched shriek.

_So that's why they call her Screamer._

Her feet touched the floor again and her hands moved down his body, stopping at the button on his trousers.

Bruce's pants fell to his ankles as Holmes and Wiggins descended the stairway.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

February 9th.

Bruce made it a point of staying in his room with the door locked and avoiding Holmes for the next couple of days.

Bruce was feeling very unnerved this particular evening because it had been much too easy. Holmes hadn't once disturbed him during his past day of solitude. Bruce didn't know what kind of mind game Holmes might be trying to play. He slowly opened the door and then, after peering in both directions to make sure he was safe, he exited the room.

Holmes hadn't killed him yet. Bruce moved to the stairway and descended slowly. Still no sign of Holmes, but the hall reeked of tobacco.

Bruce continued to sneak down the hallway. He noticed the thick cloud of fresh tobacco smoke at the end of the hallway. He tiptoed to the corner of the doorway to Holmes' study.

"Don't just stand there, Wayne," said Holmes' voice, carrying only a hint of agitation.

Bruce took a deep breath, and then he began to choke on the tobacco in the air. No longer able to enter with dignity, Bruce just entered the room spluttering.

"Your behavior at Wiggins' dinner party was quite unforgivable," said Holmes.

"I want to talk about that."

"But I'd rather not."

"That girl and I are both consenting adults. There was nothing wrong with what we were doing."

Holmes took another drag on the stem of his pipe and then slowly exhaled.

"I don't know what kind of behavior is acceptable in the States," he said, "but it's simply not English to go throwing yourself upon a young woman."

Bruce seemed to remember the young woman being the one doing the initial throwing, but he felt it unwise to raise the point.

"Wiggins was quite upset with your assault upon his sister's virtue," Holmes said, "to say the least."

Bruce was tempted to call Screamer's virtue into question, but he resisted.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But…"

"No _buts_ about it. I just hope this isn't a bridge you've completely burned. Anyway, I'm not interested in discussing your sexual escapades."

Holmes handed Bruce a stack of papers. Several similar stacks cluttered Holmes' desk. They were filled with charts, maps, blueprints, and newspaper articles.

"So this is what you had to talk to Wiggins about," said Bruce. "It's another case."

Holmes half-smiled.

"It's a veritable four-piper."

Bruce began to skim through the papers in his hand.

"On February the 6th," began Holmes, extinguishing his pipe, "while you were visiting your actress, our old friend Prof. Davenport paid us a call."

Bruce's face twisted in disgust as he remembered his previous experience with Professor Andrew Davenport.

"Prof. Davenport informed me that the British Empire was once more in need of my service," continued Holmes. "Have you ever heard of Fort Kane?"

"No."

"Neither had I. Apparently, we weren't supposed to. Fort Kane is evidentially a top secret naval base, the location of which is supposed to be highly classified. Fort Kane is overseen by Lord Edward Porter. One week ago, it was infiltrated and a set of blueprints was stolen."

"What were the blueprints for?"

"You remember how Prof. Davenport is. He refused to say what the blueprints were for, or to give me the location of Fort Kane."

"Any suspects in the robbery?"

"One." Holmes paused to relight his pipe. "The Golden Fox. The guards swear they were both knocked unconscious, bound, and gagged by a very nubile young woman in a fox costume."

"They're certain it was a woman?"

"They all swear heartily to it."

"I don't like Davenport."

"Neither do I," admitted Holmes. "Which is why I raised more conditions to undertake this 'fox hunt.' Firstly, Davenport supplied a retainer in money, not artwork. Secondly, we are to receive final payment in gold."

"And thirdly?"

"If in the end Davenport should choose not to pay us, we'll simply throw his fox back."

Bruce studied the papers in his hands again.

"If Davenport wouldn't give you the location of this secret fort, how did you get these blueprints?"

"They're not to Fort Kane. These are blueprints to the other location at which the Golden Fox has supposedly struck. Wiggins' agency had been contacted by one of the dockside warehouses that had been hit before Prof. Davenport's visit. He was all too happy to provide me with his previous research."

"So how do we go about finding this Golden Fox?"

"There's the four pipe question." Holmes' smile fully expanded."Have you ever been pub hopping?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Then have your appetite ready tomorrow evening, my boy!"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

February 10th. 11:00 P.M.

Bruce looked at the clock by his bedside, the one that Jamie Watson had given him for Christmas, and was upset. Holmes had tampered with it again. Bruce groaned and reset the hands to where he wanted them.

Holmes entered the room, and if Bruce hadn't been so used to the face, he would have been startled. A roguish black goatee, similar to one Bruce and Holmes had encountered on an earlier case, surrounded Holmes' lips. A deep scar lined Holmes' left cheek. A patch covered the opposite eye. Holmes' clothes were a drab, navy blue affair that reeked of cigarette smoke and gin. A black cap pushed low down on his head completely concealed his snowy gray hair.

Holmes tossed a slightly similar outfit onto Bruce's mattress and then stepped over to Bruce's clock and reset the hands.

"I wish you'd take better care of your gift from Dr. Watson," said Holmes. "It never tells the correct time."

Bruce tried to hide his look of contempt.

"What exactly are we doing tonight?" he asked.

"I've selected the nearest pub to each of the locations the Golden Fox has struck at. By all accounts, the Golden Fox is a showy, boastful character. It's a long shot, I know, but I'm sure the Golden Fox couldn't resist making a public appearance before or after a heist, and the public house patrons would certainly remember such a personality. We'll simply ask if anyone remembers suspicious persons or events on the nights of each crime."

Holmes' voice dropped into a thick cockney accent.

"Nahw get y'r'se'f dressed so we's can get goin', matey."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

11:56 P.M.

Bouncing from public house to public house, Bruce had more than his fill of bangers and mash, fish and chips, and kidney pudding.

"A pint of Guiness for m' and m' mate 'ere," Holmes told the publican. He removed an unlit match from his pocket and clenched the end opposite the head between his teeth.

"Ain't seen you 'round these parts e'fore," said the publican. "What be your name, mate?"

"Malone," Holmes answered. "Mitchel Malone, but m' mates refer to me as by 'Matches.'"

"Two pints comin' right up for Matches Malone and his mate!"

There was a _cltrrhp, cltrrhp-p _as the public placed to tall mugs of beer on the bar in front of Bruce and Holmes. Bruce drained his greedily as Holmes slowly sipped on his.

"M' mate an' I are in port looking for some interestin' ladies," said Holmes. "Know as where we might find one or two?"

"If it be interestin' ladies you're lookin' for," said the publican, "then one can't beats that li'l thing o'er there."

And the publican pointed to a head of long, curly, reddish-brown hair. Bruce heard Holmes gasp. Then the woman turned around and Bruce gasped as well. He recognized the operatic soprano he had met several months earlier.

In a black dress very similar to the one Screamer had worn a few days earlier and some very artfully applied make-up, Irene Adler looked even younger and more voluptuous now than she had then.

Holmes rose from his bar stool, still holding his mug, and approached the astonishing soprano. Bruce left his emptied mug on the bar and followed.

"Enjoying the nightlife, Ms. Adler?" asked Holmes.

"Indubitably," said Irene Adler. "You don't look very happy to see me again, Sherlock."

"It's Matches Malone tonight."

"Of course. You're on a case."

"And what are you here for, Ms. Adler?"

"Younger men. I convince these strapping sailors that I'm a young girl and they buy me drinks."

Irene Adler looked at Bruce the way Screamer had over the dinner table.

"Speaking of such, I'll allow you to buy me one, Mr. Wayne."

She held out her arm and Bruce instinctively wound his around it. As Irene led him to a table, Bruce couldn't help feeling repulsed and attracted at the same time. He was slowly being seduced by a woman old enough to be his grandmother.

"One more thing, Ms. Adler," said Holmes. "Have you heard anything of this Golden Fox person? Supposedly quite an interesting figure."

"Indeed she is," said Irene. "Good night, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes stepped backwards, only to bump into an extremely muscular man standing behind him.

"I beg your pardon," Holmes said.

"Pardon not received," said the man, pulling back his already short sleeves to reveal more bulging muscles.

The man swung, but before his fist could connect Holmes' knuckles scraped his chin and sent him flying back into a billiard table.

Two men playing billiards, apparently friends of the man Holmes had just hit, helped the fallen man up and then glared at Holmes. They angrily stepped forward.

One of the men was brandishing a long cue. He aimed the end at Holmes' abdomen and charged. A golden pocket watch appeared from inside the pocket of Holmes' jacket. With a quick flick, Holmes launched the watch around the cue and then tugged at the chain. The cue flew through the air and ended up in Holmes' hands. Holmes ran forward, holding the cue parallel to the floor, horizontally in his hands, and rammed an end into both men's heads. The two men fell to the floor. One groaned and tried to get up. Holmes drove the dull end of the cue into the man's groin. The man grabbed his aching crotch and Holmes brought the end up into the man's chin, knocking the man back to the floor.

The two men groaned and crawled backwards on their hands. When they were what they judged to be a safe distance from the man holding the cue, they rose to their feet and ran through the exit.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

February 11th. 12:17 A.M.

After a couple more pubs, Holmes and Bruce found themselves back in Holmes' study. Bruce was massaging his temples to ward away a headache caused by a little too much beer.

"So, what exactly have we accomplished?" Bruce asked.

"A little bit," said Holmes with a smile. "Supposing the theory is true that the culprit always returns to the scene of the crime."

"What's that mean?"

"We encountered Irene Adler in the vicinity of one of the Golden Fox's crimes," said Holmes. "We also encountered Irene Adler at a reception at which Lord Edward Porter was present. Now a fort presided over by Lord Edward has been struck by the Golden Fox."

"You suspect Irene Adler?"

"Naturally. But there's nowhere near enough evidence to prove it. Now I'm going to have to do something I'd never thought I'd dread so much. I'm going to have to call William Wiggins."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

February 11th, 11:17 P.M.

As Willy Wiggins and Sherlock Holmes had made plans for the operation before Bruce Wayne and Screamer got hot and heavy, and since the operation was mutually beneficial for both detectives, Wiggins agreed to go through with the plan. Operatives from Wiggins' agency were stationed at as many warehouses, forts, and other pieces of government property as possible. Holmes had selected one to station himself and Bruce at, as well.

The idea was to try to anticipate the Golden Fox's next move and catch her, or him, in the act.

Holmes and Bruce, dressed once again in their disguises from the previous night, were concealed in pitch blackness, hiding in a corner away from where dim lamps illuminated the warehouse floor. Bruce was bored, yawning, and trying to sleep, but whenever he closed his eyes, Holmes elbowed him awake.

"Oh, c'mon!" he moaned loudly. "We're never going to…"

Holmes quickly hushed Bruce. His trained ears were detecting soft footsteps outside the warehouse. The footsteps were followed by two groans. _The two dockworkers were being made unconscious!_ Then the footsteps continued.

Bruce was amazed by the beautiful figure that appeared beneath the dim lights. She was dressed in a very tight brownish-red outfit, displaying a breathtaking set of curves. She glided across the floor with a catlike grace and elegance. A flip of her head caused long, shimmering strands of brown hair to float through the air.

She held a gun aimed in Bruce's direction.

Before Bruce registered what was happening, Holmes was holding his cap in front of him, and two darts were protruding from it.

"Don't just gawk, Wayne!" said the master detective. "After her!"

Bruce jumped to his feet and ran into the light. The Golden Fox was already running back the way she had come, her shapely tail wagging from side to side, almost hypnotizing Bruce.

The Golden Fox's long legs took her almost to the exit before their strength seemed to expire. Her strides became smaller. Bruce didn't slow his, but kept galloping forward to catch up.

The Golden Fox turned around. An eye winked beneath the black mask, and then the Golden Fox puckered her lips in the air. Bruce stopped and watched in amazement.

Then the Golden Fox lashed forward with one of her long legs. Bruce jumped just in time to avoid being tripped up by a small crate the Golden Fox had sent sliding across the warehouse floor.

Bruce resumed his run, and the Golden Fox resumed hers. Bruce took a long leap in the air, hoping to tackle his prey to her feet. But he missed and went sprawling across the floor. When he looked up, the Golden Fox was aiming her dart gun at him. Bruce rolled out of the way and the dart struck beside his neck, so close he could feel the stiff feathers.

Bruce pushed himself up with the palm of his hands and then barreled forward towards the Golden Fox. She leapt backwards and to the left. Bruce took a step back, ran forward, and then leaped forward in her direction. He reached out his hand as he landed.

There was a tearing sound and Bruce found himself holding a scrap of brownish-red fabric. He looked into the Golden Fox's face. The face was obscured in darkness, but there was something familiar about it. Bruce grabbed for the mask, but the Golden Fox quickly turned her head.

"Ouch!" said a smooth, seductive, and feminine voice. Bruce was now holding a handful of brown hair. The Golden Fox leaped into the air again. She somersaulted in the air and landed on her feet, facing Bruce.

Then there was a loud _crrkk _and a black whip snapped in the air. The Golden Fox swung the whip again. This time, the end wrapped around Bruce's ankles and pulled them together. Bruce hit the soft ground hard.

Bruce stayed on the ground, waiting for the world to stop spinning and the ringing in his head to clear. When he sat up, stunned, the Golden Fox had disappeared.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

February 12th. 12:01 A.M.

Holmes held out one of his transparent plastic bags. Two tranquilizer darts were visible inside. Bruce could only guess that Holmes had removed the bag, removed the darts from the cap, and then sealed the darts inside the bag, all with painstaking care and attention, while Bruce was chasing after the Golden Fox.

"I'm going to study these more carefully at my lab," said Holmes. "We may be able to find a clue from the type of tranquilizer they were laced with. We may be able to find an antidote or a vaccine or an inoculation of some type. But I doubt it."

He held up two more transparent bags and studied them carefully.

"What is of more interest to me," he said, "are these samples which you have so skillfully collected."

"Is the hair Irene Adler's?"

"I could get a sample from her and try to match the DNA," said Holmes. "But based on appearance, I'd say these hairs are much too dark to come from Irene's head."

"I'd also say Irene is too old to move quite the way the Golden Fox did," commented Bruce.

"You may be right, but I still believe Irene knows more than she is telling. It would certainly be worthwhile for me to pay her a visit."

Holmes slowly unsealed the bag in which the piece of cloth from the Golden Fox's costume was kept.

"This will be the most useful to us," said Holmes. "But we will need the assistance of another detective."

"Willy Wiggins?"

"No," said Holmes slowly. "I am referring to the most _dogged_ detective in all of England."

_**A/N – That's it for now, but the next installment in "The Adventure of the Golden Fox" will be coming soon.**_


	15. The Adventure of the Golden Fox, Pt 2

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the trademarks or characters herein. I own no rights at all. Thank you._

February 12th, 1936.

A sign lettered with ugly green paint read "Sherman's Pet Store" and hung above a small shack made of uneven boards of wood in an even uglier shade of green. Another sign hung in a filthy black window with simple black block letters. This sign said "Closed for business."

Holmes knocked, and in answer the door flew backwards and the business end of a shotgun was shoved into Holmes angular nose. Holding the shotgun was a short man, about in his late thirties or early forties, with shaggy ginger hair and a chin-strap beard like an old sailor's.

"Easy, Sherman!" Holmes said.

The shotgun was slowly lowered.

"Oh, it's you, Sherlock!" Sherman said.

"You know him?" said Bruce, stepping forward.

"Of course he knows me," said Sherman. "He also knew my father, and my grandfather."

Bruce leaned close to Holmes.

"Were his father and his grandfather this strange?" he whispered.

"Even stranger," whispered Holmes. Louder, he said: "Sherman, what's the meaning of this?"

"Can't be too careful, with that lunatic striking out at shops like this one."

"You need no longer be worried about that," said Holmes. "I can assure you I personally took care of that matter just last month."

Holmes continued to talk with Sherman, but Bruce didn't hear what they were saying. He was still digesting what Holmes had just said. Holmes was so quick to take credit for that case, that case that had caused Bruce so much guilt and torment. Bruce remembered playing a more than substantial role in that victory.

"And who's your friend?"

Holmes looked puzzled momentarily. Then he turned to Bruce, seeming to remember him for the first time.

"This is Wayne, my personal assistant," said Holmes.

Bruce had caught on to a pattern by this time. Whenever Holmes needed to fit comfortably into a high-society scenario, he was sure to introduce Bruce as "Bruce Wayne, of the Gotham City Waynes." But whenever Holmes was in a situation with people he knew, people who respected him, Bruce was simply Bruce Wayne, the errand boy or apprentice or companion or whatever demeaning label Holmes chose to saddle him with.

Holmes and Sherman continued to talk, but Bruce only saw moving lips. He was consciously ignoring everything they were saying as Sherman led him into the ugly pet shop.

The three passed several cages in which animals hissed and growled and squawked and barked at Bruce. Finally, Sherman pulled back a small curtain, a slightly more aesthetically pleasing shade of green, into a rather spacious room. A small desk stood in the corner of the room. Next to the desk was a small rug, and on the rug was one of the mangiest mutts Bruce had ever seen.

At Holmes' entrance, the dog immediately awakened, writhed in the air until it's paws hit the concrete floor, and then slowly straightened itself before trotting to Holmes. As the mutt was doing this, Holmes dropped to his knees. The dog jumped up, placing its paws on Holmes' shoulder and licking Holmes' face. Holmes laughed before gently pushing the dog down and then lifting the beast's rather low-hanging ears and studying them.

"Mr. Wayne, allow me to introduce you to the greatest detective in all of London: Toby."

"Really?"

"Actually, he's Tobias V," said Holmes. "He's my pet, but as it's hard for a man my age to care for such an active young pup, Sherman takes care of him for me."

Holmes was grinning like a school boy as he tied a leash to Toby's collar.

"Toby's great grandfather assisted me in the singular adventure of the Sign of Four," said Holmes. "I believe Toby V can be of great use to us now."

Holmes thanked Sherman and then walked Toby back out through the pet shop.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Holmes and Bruce walked Toby V all the way back to the cottage in Sussex. Bruce held one end of the leash, but Toby seemed to be the one pulling it, much to Bruce's aggravation. Many times, Bruce had to stop to fix the leash, which Toby managed to continually tangle himself in. Still, the two detectives and their canine companion were able to reach the cottage hours before sunset.

Holmes and Bruce both had to take hold of the leash to stop Toby from terrorizing the heated hutch in which Holmes' beehives were being kept. Bruce and Holmes made it to the door, and when they opened it, they found Jamie Watson inside.

Bruce's jaw dropped. Dr. Watson was dressed more informally then he had ever seen before. She was wearing a thin white blouse with a low-cut and wide-open collar and a pair of khaki green men's trousers. A heavy brown men's jacket was unzipped over the blouse.

Her eyes lit up when the men entered.

"Uncle Sherlock!" she exclaimed. "I was in the area and stopped by to see how you were doing."

Bruce's grip lessened and the leash began to slide from his palm. He quickly clenched his fist again, but Toby burst forward, the leash flew from Bruce's hand, and Toby knocked the blonde doctor to the ground.

Dr. Watson just laughed as she pushed the dog away and crawled back to her feet.

"Hello, Toby!" she said, in the soothing voice a new mother uses on her infant child. "Hello, precious! I haven't seen you in such a long time."

Toby generously licked her face, and she repaid the slobbery kisses, pressing her pouty lips against the top of the dog's head, covering the tangled hair in shimmering lip gloss.

Dr. Watson looked up at Bruce with a beaming smile. Bruce refused to believe that the smile was for Toby V and not for him.

"I'm afraid Toby can't be bothered for long," said Holmes. "He has an important job to do."

"You're not going to work my puppy too hard, are you?" asked Jamie, scratching Toby's head and looking at Holmes with twinkling eyes, her lips poutier than ever.

"Nothing more than he can handle, I'm sure," said Holmes, responding with a fatherly smile.

Jamie kissed Toby again. The way she treated the animal was starting to make the mutt seem cuter to Bruce by every second.

Holmes ducked into his study. Meanwhile, Jamie continued to scratch and pet Toby V playfully. Bruce looked at her, fully intending to say something. Then he decided not to interrupt the moment, but to just take in the sight of the doctor and the dog playing happily together.

Holmes appeared in the doorway of his study, holding the plastic bag with the piece of torn, reddish-brown cloth.

"What's this job you have for Toby, anyway?" asked Jamie.

"A simple tracking job," said Holmes. He turned to Bruce. "Toby's olefactory senses are uncanny. If we give him a good whiff of this cloth sample you so skillfully collected, he should be able to lead us to a logical suspect."

"I'd hate for Toby to have to do all that walking through this frightful cold," said Jamie. The dog moaned contentedly while lying on his back and having Jamie scratch his belly.

"I'm afraid we've no other choice," said Holmes. "This is an undertaking of the highest magnitude, and we are in dire needs of Toby's unique skills."

"Let me walk him, please, Uncle Sherlock!" said Jamie, pouting at Holmes once again. "I haven't seen him in the longest time."

Holmes stroked his long chin.

"That would be most convenient, actually. I have some other business to take care of. There's a certain someone I must pay a call on. Wayne, you are to accompany Dr. Watson on her walk. I'd like you there to interpret Toby's results."

Bruce tried not to nod too enthusiastically. He hadn't seen Jamie in the longest time, and there was nothing he wanted to do more.

"Very well," said Holmes, tying on his Inverness cape and replacing his deerstalker. "Take good care of each other. And of Toby."

The great detective threw open the door as a heavy snow began to fall. A cold breeze swept the room, causing Bruce to shudder.

Jamie just smiled at him.

"This should be a nice brisk walk, shouldn't it?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Irene Adler answered the knock on the door of her third-floor flat.

"Why, Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise!"

"We've certainly been seeing very much of each other lately, Ms. Adler."

"I thought you'd be glad of it. Care for a cigarette?"

"I'll stick to my pipe, thank you," said Holmes, pulling the Calabash from his pocket, along with a bag of tobacco.

"Better that than your seven-percent solution, I suppose."

Irene moved to her cabinet and opened the rather ostentatious pearl cigarette case atop it. She removed a tiny cigarette and placed it between her ruby lips as Holmes struck a match. Irene brought her mouth close to the flame, but Holmes stepped back and used it to light his own pipe before shaking off the flame and dropping the match stick to the ground. He then crushed the stick with his heel.

Irene shrugged and lifted a match book from the cabinet top.

"I thought I made it clear that I never wanted to see you again," said Holmes.

"You did," said Irene, "but then you insisted on showing up at all of the parties I was invited to."

"Just one," said Holmes. "The birthday reception for Lord Edward Porter, the legendary naval commander."

"It was quite the affair. Lord Edward is a very handsome man."

"You became acquainted with him intimately?"

"Not nearly as intimately as I would have liked."

Irene struck her match, lit her cigarette, and took a long drag.

"What do you know about the Golden Fox?"

Irene exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and then laughed huskily.

"You don't suspect me, do you, Sherlock? I'd never be able to pull of such gymnastics at my age."

"That may very well be, but I find it highly suspicious that you've been finagling with naval officers and hanging out at pubs near military bases and dodgy old docks."

"I've always been intrigued by seamen," said Irene. "And I'm pretty sure that's not the appropriate use of the word _finagling_."

"I think you know more about this matter than you are telling."

Irene took another drag than exhaled slowly.

"I was hoping this visit would be more pleasant, Sherlock, but now I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave."

"Then I'll assume I'm correct."

"It's been a fun chase up 'till now, dearest, but I can't have you on my tail any longer. Stay away from this."

"This what?"

"This silly hunt for the Golden Fox. And stop bothering me. You have no idea just how serious this matter is."

"Are you threatening me, Ms. Adler?"

"Not threatening, Sherlock," said Irene. She placed a hand on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stood frozen as if hypnotized. Then Irene applied pressure until Sherlock was pressed against her door. "Warning. As an old friend. And an old lover."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Come on, Toby!" said Dr. Jamie Watson. She was on her knees in the snow, rubbing Toby's hair, creating friction and melting snowflakes. "I know it's cold, baby, but you can do it!"

Toby moaned but then began to trudge forward through the oppressive snow fall. Jamie rose to her feet and slapped the snow off of her knees.

She and Bruce had walked in silence at first. Bruce was too nervous to speak. He wondered if Holmes had told Jamie about Screamer Wiggins, and the possibility made Bruce feel awkward. He thought about asking Jamie if Holmes had told her, but he realized that if he hadn't, Jamie would want to know now, and Bruce would have to tell her. He kept his mouth shut until Jamie began to make small talk.

The two found themselves laughing as Jamie told Bruce about her father, and about Sherlock Holmes, and about her earlier adventures in forensic medicine. Bruce would add a word or two to the conversation, but for the most part he was just satisfied to look into Jamie's sparkling, deep pools of eyes.

When it was Bruce's turn to speak, he told Jamie about Lord Edward Porter's birthday reception and about the BirdMan and the string of pet store robberies. Jamie seemed interested and impressed, and Bruce was glad someone was finally hearing his side of the story. The papers had only mentioned Holmes when reporting the details of the pet store robberies. The reports were vague, all stating basically that Holmes had uncovered the secret hiding place in which master criminal Kyle Kimmerick had stashed his ill-gotten gains and in which the animals used to pull off the pet store robberies had been kept, and that Holmes had been responsible for the downfall of Kimmerick and whoever was behind the pet store robberies. The articles made it sound like those separate culprits were actually one in the same.

After the last peel of laughter subsided, Bruce's voice took on a more gentle tone.

"Jamie, remember when we had that conversation at the theater in December?"

"Of course."

"There was something you said then that I'd like to ask you about."

Before he could go any further, Toby began to bark loudly. He tugged at Jamie's leash and pulled her down the street. When he stopped in his tracks, Sabrina Smith stood in front of him, looking amused.

The beautiful brunette was wearing a slightly reddish, brown, hooded parka. The hood was down and her beautiful hair was blowing in the wind. Her high cheekbones were flushed with a lovely red shade that was more natural than usual. Toby was barking at her frantically.

Sabrina laughed and bent down to pet Toby, but the mutt barked and nipped at her hand. Sabrina pulled her hand away quickly and rose to her feet without breaking her perfect smile. In fact, she laughed merrily.

"I'm usually so good with animals," she said. "Hello, Bruce. It's been a while since our last get-together, hasn't it?"

"It has," said Bruce, grinning stupidly. "Much too long of a while."

Toby continued to bark.

"Shut up, you stupid animal!" Bruce grumbled.

Jamie looked from Bruce to Sabrina nonplused.

"And if it isn't our friend the little doctor woman," said Sabrina. "How is life in obscurity? I don't think I'd ever give up my place in the spotlight to take yours."

"Of course not," said Jamie. "Why work in a profession where you can help people when you can just entertain them with nipples about to burst through your clothes?"

"Don't be jealous, dear. I'm sure you'll grow into a training brassiere soon."

"At least I'll be wearing a brassiere."

Now Bruce's cheeks were taking on a crimson flush.

"I'm terribly sorry about this," he said. "The doctor and I had better be going. Will we see each other again soon?"

"I certainly hope so," said Sabrina. "Let's make plans for Friday night, shall we?"

Toby tried to follow Sabrina as she sauntered away, but Jamie held firmly on the leash. Bruce and Jamie turned back towards the cottage, but their interaction with each other was now colder than the weather.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sherlock Holmes walked the entire way from Irene Adler's flat to his Sussex cottage, smoking his pipe and wrapped so deeply in his thoughts he didn't even feel the cold.

When Holmes arrived he found Dr. Jamie Watson sitting on a settee and looking glum. She forced the corners of her lips slightly upwards when he entered.

"Hey, Uncle Sherlock."

"Hey yourself," said Holmes. "Where's Wayne?"

"Up in his quarters." Jamie's lips turned into a sour pucker. She then faked the smile again. "I took Toby back to Sherman's."

"Was your trek eventful?"

"We ran into Bruce's girlfriend. But that's about it."

Jamie rose from her seat and gave Holmes a cold peck on the cheek before sulking out the door. Holmes watched her leave with confused curiosity, biting down on the stem of his pipe.

Holmes opened the door to Bruce's room and gave Bruce a questioning glance. He then turned the same look towards Bruce's clock.

"This will never do," said Holmes. "It's wrong again."

Holmes bent down to adjust the clock again but then stopped.

"Hold on a moment," he said. "You always stop it at the same time. Why is that?"

"It's amazing how you do this," said Bruce. "Analyzing and calculating everything you see. I think your brain's like one of Allan Gates' fancy typewriters. Just insert the data and an answer sheets slides out."

"Criminal deduction isn't quite that simple, I'm afraid," said Holmes.

"About the Allan Gates case," said Bruce. "When we looked at the body of Bob Smith, you said he couldn't be you because there weren't any marks on his arms."

"Needle marks," Holmes corrected.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Holmes turned his gaze to the floor for a moment, his hawk like nose pointing at an angle towards Bruce's mattress. He slowly raised his head.

"In the beginning we agreed to keep our personal secrets _our _personal secrets," said Holmes.

"Then no more asking me about why I keep Jamie's clock the way I do."

"Very well. But I must ask you about Jamie. Why'd she leave in such a foul mood?"

"Do you understand women?"

Holmes thought of all of his experiences with Irene Adler and sighed.

"Afraid not."

"Well, neither do I."

"Dr. Watson informs me that you ran into Sabrina Smith during your walk."

Then Holmes began to chuckle.

"How interesting," he murmured, stroking his angular chin. "How very interesting. And quite possible."

"What is?"

"Why didn't we see it before?"

"See what?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that Sabrina Smith might be the Golden Fox?"

Bruce looked at Holmes in shock.

"Of course not! You're joking, right?"

"Certainly not. Think back to when you first met Sabrina Smith. It was at Lord Edward Porter's reception! The next time you saw her was at the theater during 'A Christmas Carol.' Several powerful people attend that theater. Also, she was romancing the late Sir William Moore at the time. Sir William is known for his powerful connections."

"You're suggesting that Sabrina is the Golden Fox?"

"Why not? Toby did."

"I'm not going to listen to this."

"Think it through, Wayne. Do you really know anything of her background? What was she like before she started her acting career? I suspected she was something other than what she appeared from the moment I saw her."

"You're saying she's not really an actress?"

"Oh, she's certainly an actress. She's even convinced you with her performance. As Sabrina Smith, the actress, she gets close to and seduces powerful men. As the Golden Fox, she prowls government facilities and steals top secret items and documents. She's the perfect spy. Even her name, Smith, suggests anonymity. It's probably an assumed identity."

Bruce jumped from the bed and took several thunderous steps to the door.

"You're wrong about her, Holmes! I think I've spent enough time around her to know what she's really like."

"Can't you see your being duped?"

"You smug, arrogant, limey twit!" screamed Bruce. "You're accusing her with almost no evidence."

"I'm making no accusations. I'm merely deriving a theory based on the facts on hand using the science of deduction and logic."

"I'm sick of all that twaddle."

"By twaddle are you referring to the systematic gathering of evidence and the series of logical deductions based therein?"

"By _twaddle _I am referring to _twaddle_!"

Holmes looked at Bruce as if he had been physically slapped.

"You come to me asking me to teach you to think in terms of logic and science. Meanwhile, you only think with your libido."

"What are you accusing me of?"

"You attempt to deflower the younger sibling of one of my closest allies. You find yourself drooling over every female suspect we encounter. You neglect your chores to spend an increasing amount of time with that brazen Miss Smith. You're a typical red-blooded American who thinks of nothing but sexual relations. You think of only pleasing your carnal needs. You're selfish."

"_I'm _selfish? All this time I've worked with you your name shows up in the papers and not mine. You're taking all the credit for _my _victories."

"_Your _victories? I am the master detective and you are merely the apprentice."

"Master detective? You're nothing more than a washed up old bat! You wouldn't have been able to close any of these cases without me! And all this time you've refused to put any trust in me or acknowledge my attributions!"

"Again, you're thinking with your passions instead of your logic."

"Don't get me started on passions! You pretend to be so immune to carnal needs, but I heard your conversations with Irene Adler. _Despite your former meetings? A man ruled by his passions?_"

"You're losing your head right now. But it was _you _who came to _me _for my teachingNow once you're calm again I'll telephone Professor Davenport to share my latest theory and we will resume your studies."

"I'm sick of your studies! I don't need you anymore! I know enough about this logic and deduction stuff to be a greater detective than you ever were! I'm out of here!"

Then Bruce stormed through the door, slammed it behind him, pounded down the stairs, and thundered through the main door of the cottage, slamming that one as well.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sabrina Smith and Bruce Wayne met and Bruce presented her with a bouquet of poinsettias. Sabrina blushed and kissed his cheek.

"I'm so glad you decided to get together before Friday night."

"I need to talk to you," said Bruce. "I'm alone in England right now and I need a place to stay. I was hoping I could move in with you."

"The neighbors will talk," joked Sabrina. She smiled deliciously. "But I'm sure we can work something out."

_**A/N – To be continued…**_


	16. The Adventure of the Golden Fox, Pt 3

_Disclaimer: None of the titles, trademarks, or characters (with the exception of OC's) are mine._

**A/N – _It's been a little while since my last update, and it will probably be a while until my next one (That is, if you all let me know that you still want a next one), but I thought I'd deliver the conclusion to "The Adventure of the Golden Fox." I had only planned on doing one story that required three parts (That would be our "BirdMan" epic, involving the origins of Oswald Cobblepot, a.k.a. The Penguin), but the story of the Golden Fox needed to be another epic. This conclusion is longer and more involved than previous _denouements_, so much so that the previous two chapters now seem little more than set-up for this following chapter. In fact, I've been leading up to this, not just for the last two chapters, but through all of Holmes' and Bruce's adventures._**

_**So, with no further ado…**_

Bruce Wayne didn't care about what was or what wasn't the _vedy_ English thing to do. He wasn't ready to leave England and he wasn't about to go crawling back to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Sabrina Smith's offer to allow Bruce to live in sin with her for a while was more than acceptable.

Bruce had to go without sleep the night after he deserted Holmes, wandering the streets of London and trying to keep in public places, but the next morning Sabrina allowed him to move into her place. Bruce couldn't understand why Sabrina had been so ashamed to invite him over sooner. The house wasn't Buckingham Palace by any means, but it wasn't a shack, either. Sabrina's dwellings were in a townhouse similar to the one in which Bob Smith, the man who had thought he was Sherlock Holmes, lived and died in. Only this townhouse was decorated with a very plush and lavish touch. Bruce couldn't help gawking at the chandelier hanging high above the foyer as he passed through it.

"It's not much, but it's home," Sabrina said modestly.

"How much does your acting pay?" Bruce asked.

Sabrina just giggled coquettishly and batted her eyelashes at Bruce.

"Well, it looks like we're finally going to be spending all the time we want together," she purred.

Bruce said nothing. He just used the back of his hand to wipe the beads of perspiration off of his forehead.

"So," Sabrina continued, "to what do I owe that pleasure?"

"The living arrangement the great detective made didn't exactly work for me."

"Oh?"

"It was a disagreement on a case that made me realize it, but that wasn't the start. He just thinks so differently than a normal human being does. We have nothing in common."

Sabrina sat at a table. She leaned over and began drawing invisible circles on the tabletop with a long finger nail. Deep cleavage spilled from her black blouse and brown eyes focused intensely on Bruce.

"What was the case about?" she asked casually.

"Well, it's been in the papers for a while. Have you heard of…?" Bruce stopped suddenly. "Actually, I'm not at liberty to discuss it."

"Apparently you still feel some loyalty to Holmes."

"What makes you say that?"

"Why else would you still protect the confidentiality of one of his ongoing investigations?"

"Because it's my investigation, too."

"You're not going to be leaving me all alone in this big house to go do some of your snooping, are you?" Sabrina asked, turning her beautiful lips into a prominent pout.

"No," Bruce said, a goofy grin automatically covering his face. "I'd better get moved in."

"Then the day is all ours," Sabrina said. "And the night."

Then she laughed huskily, and Bruce joined in.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The guest room was covered in red satin and lace, but the furnishings were more comfortable than in Holmes' cottage, so Bruce was willing to overlook the feminine decorations. He stripped to his underwear and put on his bathrobe when Sabrina entered. She was wearing a frilly pink negligee and a perfume that scented the entire room with a robust but womanly aroma. Bruce's jaw fell.

"Just came in to wish you a good night," Sabrina said as she shut the door behind her.

Bruce looked up her long, slender, shapely, bare legs to the bottle of champagne by the sharp curve of her right thigh, to her exposed abdomen and cleavage where the negligee was unbuttoned, and to the lips and eyes that appeared more playful than usual.

"I'm sure it will be," Bruce said.

He rose from his bed and walked to her. Sabrina pushed a hand against his chest, smiling as she held him at bay, and then leaned in and kissed his mouth.

"I've been waiting to do this since we met at Lord Edward's reception," Sabrina said, running her hands down Bruce's neck and then grabbing the collar of his robe by both sides and pulling them apart. The robe folded back and Sabrina ran her hands down Bruce's chest.

"We're not in America, you know," Bruce said. "This kind of thing's frowned upon here."

"I won't tell if you won't," Sabrina said.

Bruce put his hand on the back of her soft neck and gently pushed her head forward, and then he leaned in and kissed her. Sabrina pushed her tongue through his lips. Bruce forgot all about Screamer or any other woman he had kissed.

Sabrina pulled away and sat on the corner of the bed. Bruce sat down beside her, stroked her cheek, and then they kissed again. Bruce stroked the shoulders beneath Sabrina's negligee. Then Sabrina forcefully grabbed his wrists and pulled the hands away. At the same time, her lips left Bruce's and she leaned back. She wagged a finger at him while grinning wickedly.

"Let's have a nightcap first."

She uncorked the champagne bottle, spilling a stream of liquid onto the floor, and then poured the bubbly into two glasses sitting on a stand beside the bed.

Bruce kissed her as she picked up the glasses and she pulled away again.

"Careful, Bruce," she said out of breath. "You'll make me spill."

She handed Bruce a glass and raised hers.

"Here's to tonight," she said.

"Cheers."

Bruce quickly downed the alcohol. Sabrina took a few sips and then put the glass down, returning her tongue to the inside of Bruce's mouth.

When she pulled away Bruce felt sick to his stomach. Was he ashamed? No. He was more than willing to kiss her again. Then his head began to hurt.

"Something wrong, darling?" Sabrina asked.

"No. No. Evewything… Every…ting… Evwy… thing's al-wigh…"

The room was spinning and Sabrina was blurring before his eyes. She leaned forward and kissed him again. Then his eyelids closed on him and he fell asleep.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

A blindfold was removed from over a pair of beautiful brown eyes, eyes which were already partly concealed by a black masquerade mask. The Golden Fox looked distastefully at the man in the khaki uniform who put the folded blindfold in his pocket and pushed open the door in front of her. The man ran a hand down her thigh and across her shapely buttocks as she passed him into the room. He grabbed the tail sewed onto her cat suit and held on tight, laughing as she struggled to continued walking through the door.

"Hey, kitty, kitty," the man said in a thick German accent.

The Golden Fox turned towards him and growled. The German only laughed as he dropped her tail and let her walk into the room.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The light was incredibly dim in the room as the door _cre-ee-ked _closed behind the woman in the red-brown cat suit. Her sharp eyes could make out the blonde men in khaki uniforms and swastikas standing in front of a desk in the back of the room. She couldn't make out the face of the man who sat at the desk and leaned back into the darkness.

"Fräulein Golden Fox," said a cool, calm, and subtly menacing German voice. "I'm sorry our meetings are so reluctantly attended on your part."

"I'm here, aren't I?" the Golden Fox replied.

"You have the merchandise?" The voice held a slightly gravely quality that was very disheartening.

"I do."

An opened hand reached out of the darkness.

"Let's have it, then."

"I said I had it. I didn't say it was here."

"And why isn't it here, Fräulein?"

"I'm not happy with our arrangement. My price has gone up."

The hand formed a fist and pounded the desk. The Nazis standing in front of it were clearly shaken, but the Golden Fox didn't flinch, at least not visibly.

"We had an agreement," the disembodied voice boomed. "And I don't like dealing with people who wear masks."

"And I don't like relationships with men without faces," the Golden Fox retorted.

The room was filled with a heavy, palpable silence. Then the cool, calm, slightly gravelly German voice continued.

"Many men would desire you. I have you within my reach, but I don't ask for your body. I desire your other offerings."

"I've given you the things you ask for. Secrets, instructions, parts and equipment."

"No good without the blueprints."

"Exactly. Which is why you're giving me another thousand dollars, American, now and then another once I deliver them."

"What makes you think you're in a position to make these demands? My men and I outnumber you. We could follow you to the blueprints, kill you, and take them for ourselves."

"Or I could head straight home and torch everything before you can get your dirty hands on them."

"What brings on this sudden change in demands? Are you getting greedy, Fräulein?"

"I'm sticking my neck out further every day, and it's not even for a cause I believe in. It was bad enough when the government and Scotland Yard were after me, but now the world's greatest detective and his young boy toy are on my tail, no pun intended."

"Don't worry about Sherlock Holmes. He can easily be taken care of."

"I don't want anyone _taken care of_. I just want to know that I'm sticking my neck out for something worthwhile."

"You strike a hard bargain, Fräulein Fox. I cannot get you the money now, but I give you my word you will receive 2,000 upon delivery."

"Your word's no good."

"Then you have my permission to take whatever steps you think are necessary to avoid being screwed by my men and I."

The door opened behind the Golden Fox and she turned and began to slink towards it.

"One more thing," the German voice said. "I suggest you keep a close eye on your tail."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce opened his eyes and tried to pull himself out of bed. Exhaustion pinned him to the bed as if a magnet was drawing the entire length of his back to the floor. He rolled to his side and looked around him. The ceiling lamp was still lit. The bottle of champagne was sitting uncorked on the stand next to the bed, two glasses beside it.

Bruce forced himself into a sitting position. The room spun and his head ached.

_How much did I drink? _Bruce tried to remember as he rubbed his eyes.

Sabrina's scent lingered heavily in the air, on the blankets, in Bruce's robe. _Where was she?_

Bruce grasped his head, stretched, and forced himself to plant his feet on the floor and stand. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. Poking his head out, Bruce observed Sabrina walking down the hallway, still in her pink negligee.

"Hey, baby," Sabrina said.

"Hey?" Bruce said, his thoughts heavily clouded by the strange exhaustion which had gripped him.

"I was just up for a glass of water," Sabrina said. "Would you like one, dear?"

"No thanks. I think I'm just going back to bed."

"Good night, then."

Bruce began to turn, but then stopped and looked out as Sabrina was passing his doorway.

"One more thing," he said. "Did anything happen last night?"

Sabrina giggled.

"Silly," she said in her usual feminine purr. "If anything had, trust me, you'd remember."

Bruce just blinked, scratched his head, and stepped towards his mattress. He was unconscious before he made it.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Ernie Stappleton, top operative for the William Wiggins Detective Agency, yawned as he stood behind a tall tree and looked up at the terrace outside of Irene Adler's flat. He felt a tap on his shoulder and had to summon all of his willpower to keep from shrieking.

"Easy, old boy. It's just me."

Stappleton sighed with relief and turned to face the man in the deerstalker and Inverness cloak.

"I'll take it from here, Stappleton."

"She's all yours, Mr. Holmes. I have to admit I don't like this. I feel just a little bit like a peeping tom."

"Comes with the territory, young man."

Stappleton pocketed his binoculars and shook Holmes' hand.

"Good luck, sir."

"Good night, lad."

Holmes watched Stappleton walk away and then removed his own pair of binoculars from the inner folds of his cloak and gazed up towards Irene's window.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce awoke the next day feeling incredibly rested and vibrant. No wonder. The grandfather clock in the hall announced it was already 11:00 in the morning. Bruce made his way down the hallway and found himself in the conservatory. He scratched his head and walked in the opposite direction. He didn't really know where he was going, but it didn't really matter. He could take his time getting oriented.

Eventually, Bruce stumbled into the dining room. A plate was set on the table covered in eggs, bacon, pancakes, and toast. A single carnation stood in a vase behind the plate. Bruce sniffed the flower and gently touched the white of the egg with a fingertip. Still warm. A piece of paper beside the plate carried Sabrina's robustly feminine scent.

_Dearest_, the note read, _Got girl things to do today. Please don't mind. Make yourself at home. XOXOXOXO Sabrina._

Bruce shrugged and sat down to his breakfast.

While he ate, Bruce tried to remember what he was doing with Sabrina Smith instead of Sherlock Holmes, especially during an impending investigation. It was some kind of an argument. He remembered that. Then he remembered what the argument was about. Holmes was convinced that Sabrina was the Golden Fox. Bruce couldn't tolerate that. It was ridiculous.

Wasn't it?

Of course Bruce trusted Sabrina. He wouldn't have spent the night in the same house with her if he didn't. Yet he felt uneasy as he placed his dishes in the kitchen sink and began to pace through the house.

Bruce was looking at the paintings and photographs in the hallway when his heart jumped into his throat. There was a black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall displaying a cute little ten year old girl. The American flag was unfurled behind her, and a towering trophy beside her was topped with the number one and engraved with the word "gymnast." Bruce recognized the little girl. It was Sabrina.

And Bruce remembered how the Golden Fox had moved. _Like an expert gymnast. _Sabrina could be the Golden Fox, and that would make Sherlock Holmes right, _again_. Bruce clenched his teeth and groaned. That would mean Sherlock Holmes was _always_ right. It also meant that Bruce Wayne had been wrong, about everything.

Bruce shook his head. A lot of young women had been gymnasts. That didn't make them all spies. Then Bruce remembered his strange exhaustion the previous night. If the champagne Sabrina had given him was drugged, everything would make sense. It would allow Sabrina to slip out at night. The Golden Fox always struck at night.

But Bruce wasn't ready to admit defeat yet. He needed harder evidence. Quickly, he ran down the hall to Sabrina's room and threw open the closet door. Shoes. Dresses. Slacks. Shirts. But nothing out of the ordinary.

After all, what was Bruce expecting to find? If she was the Golden Fox, it's not like she'd leave her outfit in the closet. Not with a guest in the house.

But then Bruce saw red-brown in the corner. He grabbed red-brown fabric. It wasn't the outfit. It was raw fabric. But there was a hole cut out of it. A hole the shape and size of the rip Bruce had made in the Golden Fox's outfit! Which meant the missing fabric was probably a patch that would fit over such a hole!

Bruce took long, deep breaths to try to calm himself. Sherlock Holmes had been right again. Bruce had to follow the evidence, and his own instinct, which would make his paramour the woman everyone in the British government was after. What was Bruce going to do about it?

Bruce paced around the room pondering the question for a few minutes. Then he made his decision. Even if Holmes had been right, Bruce could still prove he was a perfectly competent detective by himself. All he needed was a plan. In a few more minutes, he had one.

Bruce found a pad of paper by Sabrina's telephone. He said a silent prayer and then dialed the number written on the front page.

"Hello."

_Perfect. _It was the same voice Bruce had heard every time he had called to make a date with Sabrina.

"Hello," the voice repeated. "Who is this?"

Bruce didn't have the plan fully worked out yet, but he had an idea of what to do, and this was the start of it.

"Hello, baby. Remember me?"

"I'm not sure."

"I remember you," Bruce said. "How could I forget? You were the angel. The angel on the other side of the room."

"What room?"

"Don't tell me you forgot last night already. You…," Bruce fumbled for a name. "You."

"Did we talk?"

"A little bit. But maybe it didn't mean as much to you as to me. Either way, I'm pretty sure you asked me to get in touch with you."

"Did you tell me your name?"

"I might not have," Bruce said. He fumbled for a name again. "It's Mitchell Malone. Junior."

"Mitchell?"

"Yes… you. How could you forget? Look, I really think we have something here. Could I see you again?"

She giggled merrily on the other end.

"How about tomorrow?" she said. "Just a lunch thing. One o'clock?"

"Can't wait. Just give me the address."

Bruce turned to an empty page of the pad and searched for a pen. But he didn't write anything down. He didn't have to. The address she gave him was the address he was already at. She would make arrangements to use the house with Sabrina. She'd be able to make those arrangements because _it was her house to begin with._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The door in front of the apartment building opened, and Holmes watched as Irene Adler stepped out. He walked through the bushes towards the door as he watched her walk away.

Irene turned, and Holmes quickly moved behind a tree. The move wasn't an easy one, though, and Holmes tried to muffle a whimper of pain as his over 70 year old ankle twisted.

Irene continued to walk into the distance. Holmes tiptoed in her direction, but then he heard the door open behind him. He spun around as two tall, muscular men stepped out behind him and grabbed him by the arm. They dragged him towards Irene as Irene turned and stepped towards him. She aimed a gun at Holmes' stomach.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But you wouldn't take my warning. Now you'll have to join us for a little walk."

Irene and her thugs led Holmes blindfolded through the streets of London for over two hours before they stopped and began to untie the fold.

"I'm sorry about the blindfold, darling," Irene said. "But it was necessary to…"

Holmes scoffed.

"It wasn't necessary at all. Do you really think making all those unnecessary turns and detours would make me forget the direction I travel to visit my own brother?"

Irene looked from Holmes to the corpulent, bald man sitting in the corner of the room. The corpulent man had the same angular features that Holmes did. She removed the blindfold.

"Of course," Mycroft Holmes said. "Welcome back to the Diogenes Club, brother."

"Don't tell me that my bringing here like this was your idea," Sherlock said. "And that you've been raised to a higher and more secretive position in the government."

"Not at all, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "The cloak and daggers business is _his department._"

Professor Andrew Davenport stepped from the corner and bowed slightly.

"I'm still a mere bean counter," Mycroft continued. "They just thought you'd prefer to hear this from me."

"I ordered Agent Adler to take any steps she deemed necessary to make sure this operation wasn't compromised in any way. I never though she'd bring you here," Davenport said.

"_Agent_ Adler?"

"Quite," Mycroft said. "Irene Adler is a special agent of His Majesty's Secret Service. Don't look so surprised, Sherlock. _You _practically recommended her to us."

"So those two brutes who accosted me are government agents?"

"Hardly agents," Irene said. "Low men on the totem pole. Just my backup."

"Agent Adler has spent the last five months attempting to uncover and capture the elusive prowler known as the Golden Fox," Mycroft said. "We believe the Golden Fox specializes in government technology and secrets. Her existence poses a great threat to national security."

"I believe that much," Holmes said. "What I don't understand is my presence here."

"I'd like to know about that myself."

Holmes looked at Irene.

"What do you mean? _You're _the one who brought me here."

"Because you were sticking your nose into a government issue. My mission could not be compromised."

"But our mission was the same one. Professor Davenport hired me to aid in the capture of the Golden Fox."

"That's why we met at the pub. It looks like we were taking the same approach to the investigation." Irene turned to Davenport. "Why wasn't I informed that Holmes and I were both searching for the Golden Fox, _by your orders_?"

Prof. Davenport swallowed a lump in his throat and looked at Irene and Sherlock sheepishly.

"Such an important issue required His Majesty's government to take advantage of all possible resources."

"And apparently not to place any amount of confidence in any of those resources," Irene said bitterly.

"Enough squabbling," Mycroft said. "Now that we're all here, does anyone have any suggestions on how we're going to deal with this problem?"

"I take it that since this is now a government operation, I can no longer expect payment in gold?" Sherlock said. Prof. Davenport shook his head. "Damn! Well, I do have _one _suggestion."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce saw Sabrina the next morning, but she quickly made some excuse to leave the house. Bruce _knew_ it was a made-up excuse because he _knew_ why she was really leaving. She also left Bruce with a list of things to do. _Not around the _house. In the most subtle way she could muster, she was making it clear to him that he shouldn't hang around the house, either. She even had Bruce follow her outside and drive to the nearest market.

Bruce excused himself and slowly made his way towards Sabrina's house. Or the house of the girl he had spoken to on the phone. He made it to the door with a bouquet of flowers five minutes past twelve.

The girl opened the door.

"Hey," Bruce said. "…You."

"Morgan," the girl said. "Morgan Barnswallow."

"Do you think I would forget?"

Actually, Sabrina's friend Morgan was quite forgettable. She wasn't ugly. She was just plain. She wore a loose fitting, ruffled gray dress. Raven black hair was drawn into a tight bun behind her egg-shaped head. Her teardrop shaped gray-blue eyes held no emotion and her thin, tiny lips made a straight line above her chin rather than a smile or a frown.

"Do come in, Mr. Malone," Morgan said.

"Please, call me Matches," Bruce replied. "All my friends do."

Morgan smiled a half-smile and led Bruce inside. She put a hand on his broad shoulder and gestured towards the seat he had eaten breakfast in that very morning.

"I'm sorry, but I still don't remember you," she said.

"But I remember you," Bruce said. "I must make a confession."

"Go on," Morgan said, her half-smile fading back into a straight line.

"I lied about talking to you before. But I fell in love with you when I first saw you and I just had to get in touch."

"I'm glad you did," Morgan said. She placed a cold, emotionless hand on Bruce's. "But how did you get this number?"

"From a mutual friend," Bruce continued. "Miss Sabrina Smith?"

"Oh?" There was a flicker of emotion in Morgan's eyes. But it wasn't the kind of emotion he thought it was at first. She began stroking the hand she was holding with her fingertips. It sent chills down Bruce's spine. "Are you sure it's not Sabrina you're interested in? Most men are."

"She seemed okay, I guess," Bruce said. "But she's so… _plain _next to you."

Morgan batted her eye lashes and half-smiled again.

"Have you had many ladies before, Mr. Matches?"

Bruce swallowed a lump in his throat. Morgan leaned over and drew invisible circles on the tabletop with a short fingernail; much like Bruce had seen Sabrina do earlier, revealing shallow cleavage beneath the gray dress. _Holmes was right_, Bruce thought begrudgingly. _Every woman on the planet is hell-bent on using their sexuality against me._

"When do we eat?"

"You silly Yankee," Morgan said. "Isn't the conversation fulfilling enough for you?"

She leaned in deeper. Bruce blushed and rose from his seat.

"I've dreamed about this moment since I first saw you. But now I'm afraid I must be going. Ta-ta. Pip-pip. Cheery-o. And whatever else you Brits say."

Bruce ignored the shocked look on Morgan's face and walked out the door. Then he hid behind a shrub and waited. An hour later, Morgan stepped out the front door, the confused look still on her face. Bruce waited until she was at the end of the street and then began to follow. He followed her several blocks. Morgan never hailed a taxi or a bus but just continued her trek on foot.

Bruce's hair bristled up on the back of his neck. Was Sabrina dangerous? Was he walking into a trap? Bruce refused to believe he could be that wrong about someone, but he couldn't shake the feeling something, or someone, was behind him. Bruce looked over his shoulder and spotted an old man with long, stringy hair. Bruce continually shifted his gaze between the old man and Morgan, speeding his walk just a little. The old man turned down a different road and Bruce turned his full attention to Morgan. After another block, Bruce felt as though someone was behind him again. He turned and saw a crippled old lady with gnarly red hair. He ignored her and sped up even more to stay in pursuit of Morgan.

Bruce checked over his shoulder. The crippled old lady was out of sight. Up ahead, Morgan was unlocking the door to a secluded cabin. Bruce waited until she was inside and then ran to the house and onto the front stoop. He turned the knob. The door was unlocked. It slowly swung open.

Sabrina Smith was holding a gun inside.

"Hello, lover."

She grabbed Bruce by the arm and pulled him in, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. She pushed him to the other side of the room and kept the gun trained on his belly.

"Did you honestly believe I couldn't recognize your voice from all those other phone calls?" Morgan asked. Bruce just shrugged.

"Sit down, Bruce," Sabrina said, motioning with a gun towards the whicker chair. There was still a playful glimmer in her brown eyes and a naughty smile on her sumptuous lips.

Bruce took a seat.

"He knows too much now, Sabrina," Morgan said. "We'll have to kill him."

Sabrina holstered her gun and crossed the room to Bruce. She put a hand on his cheek.

"That would be a shame," she said. She straddled his lap. "Our relationship was just getting interesting."

"I suppose I should leave you two alone," Morgan said. She opened a door and disappeared from sight.

Without leaving Bruce's lap, Sabrina drew her gun again. Then she pushed her lips against Bruce's. Bruce automatically pushed his back.

Sabrina removed her mouth from Bruce's and then bit his earlobe.

"What am I supposed to do with you, lover?" she whispered.

Then, suddenly, her mood changed. She crawled out of Bruce's lap and sniffed the air.

"I smell smoke," she said.

The door Morgan had disappeared through opened and smoke billowed out.

"Fire! Fire!" Morgan cried. "Fire! We've got to get out of here."

"Not without our files!" Sabrina cried.

"Sabrina, we could die if we get them!"

"Morgan, we _will _die if we _don't_!"

Bruce just watched as Sabrina and Morgan ran frantically down the hallway. When they were out of sight he bolted for the door.

The old man with stringy hair and the old crippled lady with gnarly hair were waiting outside, holding guns. Bruce looked at them in shock. Morgan and Sabrina soon bolted into Bruce, both carrying cardboard boxes filled with papers.

The woman pulled Bruce to the side and then she and the man both removed their disguises, revealing themselves as Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes.

"The game's up, Miss Smith," said Holmes. "Or should I say, Miss Golden Fox?"

He grabbed her by the shoulders and twirled her to face the woods on the west side of the cabin, from which Prof. Andrew Davenport, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Stanley Hopkins, and several sharpshooters holding rifles and dressed in constabulary uniforms emerged.

Holmes then turned and grabbed Morgan by the shoulders. He twirled her around as well.

"There's no need to worry, ladies. A simple incendiary device was flung through an opened window. There's no flames, only a small amount of smoke."

"Up to your old tricks, I see, Sherlock," said Irene. "I can't believe they fell for it."

"Why not, Miss Adler?" Holmes asked, looking at her haughtily. "You did."

Davenport, Mycroft, Hopkins, and a constable stepped forward and placed cuffs around Sabrina and Morgan's wrists.

"You no doubt recognize the Golden Fox's accomplice," Holmes said. "Lady Morgan Barnswallow. Upon Miss Smith's arrival in England — I call her that only because I still have no idea of her true surname — the two became fast friends. Lady Morgan lent her two homes and her numerous social contacts to Sabrina's gymnastic skills to create the perfect spy."

"Two houses?" Bruce said. "Now I get it. Sabrina made the mistake of carrying her most prized possessions from one house to the other. The gymnastics photo was what convinced me she was the Golden Fox."

"Lady Morgan was Sabrina's English insider," Holmes said. "They were no doubt splitting the profits from selling government secrets."

Bruce watched as a police captain disbanded the sharpshooters and then followed them away.

"You'll want to talk more with the young ladies, of course, Professor," Holmes said.

"Quite," said Davenport. He and Mycroft led Sabrina and Morgan into the woods. Irene Adler followed.

"I wonder what those secrets are," Holmes said slyly.

Holmes reached into one of the cardboard boxes and pulled out a manila folder. Hopkins gasped but said nothing.

The file was labeled "Fort Kane." Holmes opened it and looked at the blueprints inside.

"It seems to be the blueprints for some kind of vehicle," he said.

Bruce peeked at the blueprints. The automobile appeared very sleek and aerodynamic. There seemed to be plans to power it with some sort of turbo thruster.

"I've got to get me one of these," Bruce said.

Holmes closed the file and replaced it in the cardboard box.

Then Bruce looked at Holmes in disgust.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Capturing the Golden Fox," Holmes said. "With your help, of course. You led me straight to her. First, I simply had to put a tail on you. Wiggins was more than happy to do the job. When you met up with Lady Morgan, Miss Adler and I waited to follow you as you followed her. And of course, you led us here, where I was able to spring my fox-trap. There's no need to thank me for rescuing you."

"You didn't rescue me," Bruce snapped. "I had everything taken care of myself. You didn't need to come here."

"Fair enough, Master Bruce," Holmes said. "You did very well for yourself. Now you may come back to the Sussex cabin to continue your lessons."

"No!" Bruce said. "I meant what I said. I might have been wrong about Sabrina, but I wasn't wrong about those other things! I can make it on my own as a detective… without you."

Prof. Davenport, Mycroft Holmes, and Irene Adler emerged with their prisoners.

"They're pretty tight lipped, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"And we're just plain pretty," Sabrina quipped.

"And now, gentlemen," Holmes said, "if we leave the more than capable Inspector Hopkins to safeguard our prisoners, we had better search the premises to see if our adversaries have any more hidden secrets."

And everyone moved into the building, with the exception of Inspector Stanley Hopkins and his two prisoners.

**A/N – _If you read this, then please review._**


	17. Adventure of the Walking Terror, Pt 1

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein._

**A/N – _Hello, Readers. If I still have any readers. I realize, once again, that there has been a long stretch between chapters in this fanfiction. But I have a good excuse._**

**_First of all, as usual, I have been really busy. Also, I've been having computer troubles. But neither of those are the real reason this chapter has been so long coming. The truth is, it's been a long, experimental struggle to find exactly how, stylistically, I want to tell the story of Bruce Wayne and Sherlock Holmes. In the latest episode, "The Adventure of the Golden Fox", I felt I drifted too far from the style in which I began this fanfic. Too many sophomoric bedroom scenes and innuendoes and way too many anachronisms. I really wanted to get back to the style and heart of both the story and the 1930's setting._**

**_Last year, around this time, I offered a little holiday treat for Christmas. This little holiday gift would fit in better with Halloween. And it's set in the Spring of '36. All the same, I hope you enjoy it, and if you're looking for a little Christmas, you're always welcome to read, or re-read, the episode entitled "A Case of Christmas Fear."_**

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"**_The Adventure of the Walking Terror"_**

March 3rd, 1936.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming here," Willy Wiggins said, "after trying to deflower my sister."

Bruce Wayne clenched his fists and resisted the urge to impugn Wiggins' statement.

"This isn't about your sister," Bruce said. "This is about a job."

Wiggins leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk. He looked at Bruce through slanted eyes.

"Why would I want to give you a job? You don't even have a license to practice." He intertwined his fingers and placed his hands on his belly. "Go back to your wealthy mommy and daddy in the States. There's nothing for you to do here in London."

Bruce clenched his fists harder and slowly inhaled and exhaled.

"My mommy and daddy are dead," he said between clenched teeth. "And I came to London to learn all I could about criminology. I'm not leaving until I've accomplished that."

Wiggins sat straight back up.

"I'll let you run a few odd jobs around the agency if that's what you want," Wiggins said. "Mr. Holmes called me and told me he thought you'd be coming. He said I'd find you more than capable."

Wiggins reached out to shake Bruce's hand. As Bruce clasped Wiggins' hand, Wiggins looked at him threateningly.

"But if I catch you anywhere near my sister," Wiggins said, "I swear I'll waste you."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

April 1st, 1936

Bruce had practically spent an entire month running errands for the operatives of William Wiggins' Detective Agency. Many of them, like Wiggins, were former members of the Baker Street Irregulars, or had been employed by Sherlock Holmes for recent operations. They often swapped stories of their most dangerous adventures under Holmes' employ. Hearing the name of the so-called "great detective" made Bruce feel sick every time.

Bruce made fast friends with Ernie Stappleton, however, and Stappleton would often allow Bruce to take part in his cases. He also spent a lot of time helping Bruce look through the agency's case files and special equipment. Unlike Holmes, Stappleton was willing to talk Bruce through the more scientific aspects of detective work, briefing him on all of the latest forensic discoveries. Bruce learned a lot about fingerprinting and hair and chemical analyses.

On this particular afternoon, Bruce was lounging behind Ernie's desk, rereading a paper from two months prior. The infamous Golden Fox had escaped. The same paper contained an obituary for Lady Morgan Barnswallow. According to the paper, Morgan had been fatally injured in a running accident. Bruce was one of the few men who knew the truth. Or, at least, a better version of the truth than the truth the paper contained. Sabrina Smith and her accomplice had attempted to run from Stanley Hopkins. Sabrina had escaped, but Morgan had tripped and broken her neck,

Ernie stuck his head in the doorway.

"Mr. Wayne," Ernie said, a sly smile on his lips, "there's some dame here to see you. And she's a real knock-out."

Ernie disappeared, and a smooth, slender pair of legs appeared in the doorway. The legs led to a black skirt, which led into a simple white dress shirt beneath a black blazer. This in turn led into a smooth neck which led to a dimpled chin. The dimpled chin belonged to a beautiful young woman with blonde hair flowing to her armpits.

"I'm here on behalf of a friend, Mr. Wayne," she said.

Then Bruce recognized her.

"Jamie!" he exclaimed, straightening in his chair and not knowing whether to smile or cry.

"Dr. Watson, if you please," Jamie said coldly. She sat down in the chair Ernie's clients normally took. "And, as I said before, I'm not here for my own sake. Believe me, if I never had to talk to you again, I'd be much happier."

Bruce decided not to cry. He just frowned at her.

"_He _sent you here didn't he?" Bruce demanded. Jamie looked down at her lap. "_Didn't he_?"

"He couldn't!" Jamie said. "He's sick. I think he's dying."

When Jamie looked up, mascara was making little blue trails across her cheeks. Bruce grabbed Ernie's wide-brimmed hat and slid it down over his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her.

"What's that got to do with me?" Bruce demanded coldly. "You're the doctor."

"I can't find out what's wrong with him, though!" A loud sob. "I don't know what he has, or what to do about it. He's been in a sort of a fever coma all week. He tosses and turns and babbles incoherent phrases. Sometimes he'll open his eyes and look at his doctors with the most terrible expression! I just can't figure out how to help him. And he keeps calling your name."

Bruce said nothing. He wanted nothing more than to embrace the beautiful young doctor and tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he simply brought his feet up to rest on the desk and slid back in the chair, just as he had seen Wiggins do.

Then the hat was lifted from his head, and he saw nothing but her damp brown eyes.

"You cheeky bastard!" she exclaimed.

Bruce was almost afraid to watch her walk away.

Ernie entered, his eyes following Jamie.

"Some dame," he said. "Cute as lace panties. You've got a way with them, don't you?"

Bruce just groaned.

"So, are you going to take her case?"

Bruce brought the brim of the hat back down over his eyes.

"I'll think about it."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"What's wrong with him?" Bruce asked as he stepped into Holmes' bedroom.

Jamie turned immediately at the sound of his voice. Bruce thought he saw a smile on her lips, but it quickly vanished. Jamie turned to a balding man standing beside the bed.

"Dr. Raymond, this is Bruce Wayne. He's a friend of Holmes."

"I've never seen symptoms like these before. Not in Sussex," said the doctor. "Hallucinations. High fever. Complete disorientation."

"What does it look like?" Bruce asked.

"I'd say some kind of hysteria. I'm not sure which. I've never seen the troubles of the mind have such a physical effect on the body. I can try to ease his pain as much as possible, but unless I can find out exactly what's wrong with him…"

The doctor just looked at Jamie and Bruce blankly. He then knelt beside Sherlock Holmes and dabbed his sweaty forehead with a wet wash cloth.

Just then, Holmes' eyes opened. The detective sat up and looked at the three in the room with utter panic in his eyes.

"Keep him away from me!" he cried. "Keep him away!"

"Who?" the doctor asked.

"The Napoleon of Crime!" screamed Holmes, his voice shifting into a high-pitched voice. "Professor James Moriarty! He's trying to kill me!"

Holmes reached for the doctor's collar, but before he grasped it his torso began to wobble around. Holmes collapsed back onto his mattress. His breaths came slowly and laboriously.

"The Headless Horseman," he muttered, and then was silent.

"Is he all right?" Bruce asked.

"He should be," Dr. Raymond said. "He's had these episodes before."

"He always mutters about that Moriarty character," said Dr. Watson. "Or about the Hound of the Baskervilles. Or the Speckled Band. Or the Headless Horseman."

"The first three are from his early cases," Bruce said. "I recognize them. The last one sounds familiar, too, but not from his case."

"Can I talk to you, Bruce, privately?" Jamie asked.

Bruce nodded and Jamie led him into another room, shutting the door behind them.

"I threw away the needle," she said. "I found it beside him when I came to visit. He was laying there beside it, yelling about the Headless Horseman."

"What needle?"

"I got rid of it. He's a good man, beside this one thing, and if it kills him he should be protected from the scandal. His reputation's at stake."

"Jamie, what needle?"

"A syringe, Bruce. I think he was back to his old habits."

"Jamie, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"He never told you? He used to have an addiction to cocaine. A solution of seven percent of the drug and ninety-three percent of water. If he used a different solution this time, or a bad solution, it might have…"

Bruce thought about the comment Holmes had made to him, about the lack of needle marks in Robert Smith's arm.

"It might have killed him," Bruce said. "It wouldn't do this to him. Would it?"

"I don't know. It's the only explanation I can think of."

"Did you even think of examining the syringe? Finding out what was in it? Where is it now?"

"No. And I got rid of it. It's long gone by now."

Bruce groaned.

"Maybe he's not sick, and maybe he didn't relapse back into drugs. Maybe he was drugged by somebody else. What was he working on?"

"I don't know."

"I'll need to get into his study. I gave him back the key to it. And Jamie…"

He looked at her pretty pink lips and wet doe eyes.

"I'm doing this for you, not for him."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce and Jamie entered the study and found the room in disorder. Someone had overturned desks, scattered papers, and completely demolished Holmes' chemistry set. Still, the perpetrator had been polite enough to lock up behind himself.

"No one's been in here since Holmes was found like that a week ago, have they?"

Jamie shook her head.

"Then I was right. Holmes isn't sick. He's been poisoned. And whoever poisoned him came into the study, destroyed or took all of the evidence that implicated him, and locked the door behind him before returning the key to Holmes' pocket."

Bruce scanned the room. His eyes stopped on Holmes' Inverness cloak.

"But he probably missed something."

Bruce walked to the cloak and searched its many folds. Finally, he came away with a tiny piece of paper, on which was written a name, a telephone number, and an address.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce walked briskly down the halls of Oxford University. He stopped and pounded on an office door.

"Can I help you?" said a voice behind him.

Bruce turned to behold a young man, seemingly the same age as he was. The young man had a similar build to Wiggins, only he was even taller and even thinner than Willy Wiggins was. Instead of Wiggins' straw hair, the stranger had curly black locks. He was wearing a thick pair of coke-bottle glasses.

"I'm a student here," the youth said in an American accent, offering a thin, sinewy hand to Bruce. "Actually, I'm a student at Gotham University, back in the States. But I'm studying abroad for the term."

Bruce's heart leapt. All the way across the pond, a fellow Gothamite! Bruce wanted to confess that he came from that same city, and that his father had once lectured at that same university, but he resisted. It was best to keep as low of a profile as possible, after he had gone through all of that trouble to become a high-profile missing person case, with Alfred's help, of course.

"I'm Bruce. I'm a Private Investigator."

"Really? And another Yank! What brings you to this side of the Ocean?"

"I'm studying abroad as well. I'm looking for Dean Dennis Shaw?"

"Shaw's been missing for at least a week now. No one knows where he went. Perhaps you could talk to someone else here. I'm just a student, but…"

"It's pretty important that I talk to Dean Shaw, but thank you, Mr…?"

"Please, call me Jon. Jon Crane."

Just then, Bruce saw a familiar face past Jon, down the hallway. It was Chief Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, talking to an elderly gentleman, who appeared quite disturbed. Bruce excused himself from Jon's company and ran towards the Inspector.

"What's happening?"

"Oh, young Mr. Wayne, is it?" said Gregson. "I'm just delivering some rather tragic news. It appears the Dean of Oxford University's wife just returned from sabbatical, only to find her husband quite dead. An apparent suicide."

**A/N – As always, I would appreciate your reviews.**


	18. Adventure of the Walking Terror, Pt 2

_DISCLAIMER: I own nothing... nothing!_

**A/N – _Here's a present, just in time for Christmas. Again, I apologize that the story isn't more in-line with the Spirit of the Holidays, but it's taken longer to write this fan novel than I intended. It was only meant to take place over the course of a year, and I can think of no proper explanation for Christmas occurring twice in one year._**

_**So, here's the conclusion of "The Adventure of the Walking Terror."**_

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be sleeping peacefully when Bruce Wayne entered his bedroom. Jamie Watson was sitting beside the bed, her eyes downcast and showing nothing but concern. At the sound of Bruce's footsteps, she looked up.

"Any improvement?" Bruce asked solemnly.

Jamie shook her head with equal solemnity.

Just then, Holmes jerked up violently, flaying his arms in the air.

"It's the Headless Horseman!" he screamed. "The Headless Horseman. He tried to kill me!"

Bruce could do nothing but gape at the horrifying site. Jamie gently grabbed Holmes' shoulders. Holmes responded by grabbing her neck. Bruce watched in horror as Jamie choked and Holmes tightened his grip. He lunged forward.

"Get your mitts off her!" he commanded.

Holmes continued to squeeze. Bruce raised his hand to strike at the possessed man grasping the beautiful blonde by the throat.

"Bruce, no!" Jamie wheezed. "Don't."

Suddenly, Holmes' hands separated and the detective fell back to the bed. Jamie coughed violently. Bruce stepped towards her, but Jamie held out a hand to stop him.

Then Holmes shot up again. Bruce and Jamie both started in terror. But Holmes just opened Jamie's Gladstone bag. He removed a syringe and hurled it through the air like a dart. The needle caught in a book on a shelf on the other side of the room. Then Holmes collapsed once again. Jamie sighed, relieved.

Bruce led Jamie into Holmes' study.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"What have you found?" Jamie asked.

"The name in Holmes' pocket. Dean Dennis Shaw of Oxford University. He's dead. The police think it's a suicide."

Jamie's thick blonde eyebrows arched in surprise.

"No note or anything. But Shaw left muddy footprints on the banister of his master staircase. It looked like he jumped. He'd been dead about eight days when his wife found him. She'd been visiting family in Switzerland. She said he was a little stressed about work, but no more so than usual. Couldn't think of why he'd kill himself."

"Do you think it was murder? And that he hired Holmes because he knew someone was after his life?"

"There may be more to it than that. The University Chaplain died a few days earlier. Burnt to death."

Jamie cringed.

"How?"

"He crawled into a lit fireplace."

Jamie cringed again.

"His maid says he went off his rocker," Bruce continued. "Says he kept screaming about Satan sitting in his armchair, and about the fires of Hell, and about how he was an unrepentant sinner. He was still screaming about fire and brimstone when she came in and saw him burning in the fireplace. She tried to pull him out, but he was stubborn. Wouldn't come out. Just kept talking about being an unrepentant sinner."

"Another suicide?"

"Looks like it."

"But you think it was murder. You think the Dean suspected foul play, and that he hired Uncle Sherlock to investigate the death. And you think the Dean got himself murdered as well."

"It could all be a coincidence. But all coincidences must first be weighed against."

"What's your next step?"

"I met a student at Oxford. Very bright guy. He's a psychology student. I think I can trust him to give me the inside scoop. His name is Crane."

Bruce and Jamie stepped out of the study and walked back to the bedroom.

"Where are you sleeping?" Jamie asked.

"A little cot in Wiggins' office on Baker Street. Why?"

The two stopped the conversation with a start. Irene Adler was standing above Holmes' bed. She turned to face them.

"Ms. Adler," Bruce said simply.

"Special Agent Adler," Irene said. She showed her badge. "His Majesty's Secret Service. Have you figured out what's causing this?"

Jamie shook her head and Bruce spoke.

"I'm working on it."

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help," Irene said. "He's important to the government, you know." Softer, "And to me."

Irene sat down in the seat Jamie had occupied and took hold of one of Holmes' hand.

Then Holmes began to moan. Then he began to scream.

"Bruce!" he cried.

Bruce was walking towards the door, but he froze in his tracks.

"Bruce! Don't let him get me!"

"Who? Don't let who get you?"

"The Hound! The Hound of the Baskervilles! He's come back for me!"

He began to cough.

"Don't leave me, Bruce!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Jamie and Irene clasped their hands over their ears. "Don't leave me!"

Bruce left.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce's footsteps echoed down the mostly empty hallways of Oxford University. Bruce kept walking until he came upon an odd little man sitting in a corner. The man was really short, with shaggy, snowy white hair and a serious overbite. His long, pointed nose was buried in a heavy volume titled "The Complete Works of Lewis Carol."

"May I help you?" the man said in an odd, sing-song voice with a heavy English lilt. He lifted his nose from the book. "My name is Professor Jervis Tec."

"Professor of literature?"

Tec looked at Bruce as if the question was bizarre. Then, slowly, understanding crossed his face, and the eyes fell back to the book and then quickly rose again.

"Oh, no! Oh, no, indeed! Science. Literature is merely a hobby."

"I'm looking for a student named Jonathan Crane."

"Crane? Oh, yes! A brilliant lad! A remarkable lad! He's double-majoring in psychology and chemistry. Taking a chemistry class here. Presently, he's in the laboratory, talking to another one of our professors."

"The chemistry professor?" asked Bruce.

"Heavens, no!" the odd little man remarked. "Professor Luxor. Egyptology."

Bruce scratched his chin. Just then, a door nearby opened. Jon Crane stepped out. Beside him was a thin man with neat white hair in a white lab coat, only slightly shorter than Crane. They were conversing quietly, but stopped when they noticed Wayne and Tec.

"Bruce!" Jon exclaimed. "How nice to see you again."

"Got a minute? Just to shoot the breeze?"

"With a real live shamus? Shoot. Of course. We can talk in the lab, if you'd like."

Jon stepped back into the room he had just come out of. Bruce turned to Jervis Tec once more.

"You're a literature buff," he said. "Have you heard of the Headless Horseman?"

Tec nodded enthusiastically… then buried his nose back in the book.

_"Mad as a hatter," _Bruce remarked to himself. Then he followed Jon Crane into the lab.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce told Jon the details of the Dean's death and the Chaplain's death as Gregson had told him. Jon listened and nodded with interest.

"That's actually more than I knew," Jon said. "Absolutely fascinating."

"But you're on the in," Bruce insisted. "Did either man seem suicidal, or even depressed or agitated?"

Crane shook his head, causing his wavy black hair to swish left and right on the top of his head.

"But I didn't know either of them well. They seemed gay enough. This is incredibly queer."

"What were you doing in here with the Egyptology professor?" Bruce asked, eying the colorful liquids in vials around the room.

"We were just discussing some of his latest findings. Extra-curricularly. Professor Luxor is a fascinating man."

"But you're studying chemistry."

"And psychology. I'm especially fascinated with phobias. You see, as a boy, I was scared of pretty much everything. Dogs, rain, small spaces, the dark… But especially bigger people. Bullies scared the life out of me. Anything scare the life out of you, Bruce?"

"Bats."

"Bats. Common enough phobia. Anyway, I realized that even bullies were scared of something. Everyone is. And that fascinated me."

"But why chemistry?"

"Phobias, like any other psychological disorders, Bruce, are merely the results of chemical imbalances in the brain."

Bruce and Jon rose and shook hands.

"Well, thanks," Bruce said simply.

"Hey, if you want to be on the in, as you said, we're having a party here tonight."

"A party? Can you do that?"

"As long as the faculty doesn't find out, we'll be fine. Anyway, it's a costume party, and you're more than welcome to come."

When Bruce stepped back into the hall, Jervis Tec raised his nose from the book once again.

"_The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_," he remarked. "Washington Irving."

It signaled a light in Bruce's brain.

"Thanks."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce burst into Holmes' bedroom eagerly. So eagerly that Jamie, who had fallen asleep in her seat, woke up violently.

"The needle!" Bruce cried. "The one in the book! Is it still there?"

Jamie pointed. Bruce raced to the bookshelf. He was disappointed when he read the binding of the book the needle was buried in. It was a book on the eider-duck. Then he became excited.

"He's delusional!" he said excitedly.

"I know, Bruce!" Jamie said, frowning.

"So he missed."

Bruce pulled down the book next to the volume on eider-ducks. He flipped through the pages eagerly. Jamie kept begging him to tell her what was going on, but he ignored her and read silently. Then he smiled at her.

"This page!" he remarked. "This page talks about an ancient Egyptian cult. They made an organic potion that they gave initiates. The potion would cause hallucinations. If the fledgling could confront the fear and survive, he would become fully initiated. The potion also made an effective weapon, causing enemies to hallucinate feverishly, confusing them. It could either be used in a battle, or to assassinate a single man."

Jamie still appeared puzzled.

"Jon Crane, the student I told you about, was in the lab with the professor of Egyptology. They're in it together. They made a similar potion, one that could be injected into the victim's blood stream. The toxin caused Chaplain Willies and Dean Shaw to kill themselves."

"How do you know?"

"Because, Holmes keeps referring to the Headless Horseman. The Headless Horseman comes from the Washington Irving story. The main character in that story is named Ichabod Crane. Jonathan shares his name, and resembles him. Holmes must have found out Professor Luxor and Crane were involved in the deaths. Or at least that Professor Luxor was involved. Then Crane followed him here and gave him the injection. Probably an overdose, since the symptoms are so unusually prolonged."

"If he's been trying to tell us Crane was involved, why didn't he just come out and say it?"

"Because, the toxin has put him in a hallucinatory state. It's like he's living in a nightmare. He subconsciously translated Crane into the Headless Horseman."

"So, what are we going to do about all of this?"

"Crane's throwing a shindig at the University tonight," Bruce said. "We'll find him and force him to give us the antidote."

"How do you know he will?"

"Because I know what kind of man he is. A coward."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When blindfolds were removed from eyes, Professor Luxor and Jon Crane were staring at a broad-shouldered back.

"Well?" a gravelly voice said. "Your deadline's tonight."

"It's almost perfected," Crane said. "You know Chaplain Willies was our test subject for the injected liquid form, and Dean Shaw was our subject for the first gaseous form."

"We've made some alterations since," Luxor said. "I think we've perfected it, but we need to run a few more tests."

"Herr Luxor, it seems you were wise asking Herr Crane to join you here in England," the gravelly voice said. "But, still, the formula should have been finished much earlier. I can't extend your deadline much longer."

"Please," Crane said. "Give us one more evening. We'll have your weapon finished then."

"One more evening," the voice agreed. "That is all."

Then the men in swastikas returned the blindfolds.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"I found these in Uncle Sherlock's disguise kit," Jamie said.

Bruce's jaw dropped. Jamie was wearing a belly dancer outfit, and she looked exquisite. The outfit showed off Jamie's curvaceous figure more than anything he had ever seen before. It also showed off a well-shaped abdomen. Bruce did his best to banish any thoughts of how Holmes would look in it.

"Here's yours."

Bruce looked aghast as she draped his costume over a chair.

"What is it?"

"_Die Fleidermaus_," Jamie said. "The bat."

"I'm sorry," Bruce said. "I can't do bats."

"You'll have to," Jamie said. "It's the only one that I think will fit you."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce hated his appearance in the mirror. A large, misshapen black ear protruded from each side of his head. He wore the ears over the cowl Holmes had given him for Christmas. He also wore a masquerade mask similar to the one Sabrina Smith had worn as the Golden Fox.

Bruce tried to determine which of the heavily costumed students was Crane. As he did so, he danced with Jamie. He looked deeply into her eyes.

"It's not going to happen, Bruce," Jamie said.

"What isn't?"

"A romance. Between you and I. I thought it might, at first, but…" She sighed. "I can't just be another trifle to you, Bruce. I don't want to fall for a jet-setter, and I don't want to become like Wiggins' sister or like that cheap actress tart."

And she wouldn't. Bruce knew that. She could never be like them. She was better. She was a better person. She was a more beautiful person. She was smarter and more determined. And she was becoming more than an infatuation to him. He ran his hand down her back, letting it rest on the exposed base of her spine, and prepared to tell her everything he was thinking.

Then he spotted Crane's unmistakable stature and gait. Crane was dressed as a scarecrow.

"Crane!" Bruce snarled.

The Scarecrow took one look and then began running down the hallway. Bruce ran after him. Long, black silk hung from beneath Bruce's dark sleeves. His batwings.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Crane ran into the laboratory and threw the door closed behind him. He leaned back against it with all of his might. The door burst open, forcing Crane into the wall. Bruce entered, slammed the door, and spun Crane around. Crane looked, not at him, but at two bodies lying on the floor. One was a man in a khaki uniform and swastikas. The other was Luxor.

"How fascinating," Crane said. "It looks like they got into a scuffle over the formula, and then both inhaled a lethal amount."

Bruce shook him by the collar.

"Where's the antidote?"

His voice was low, guttural, gargling.

"It won't help," Crane said. "They're dead."

"Not for them!" Bruce growled in the menacing voice. "For Sherlock Holmes!"

"He should be dead," Crane said. "I gave him a concentrated dose. At his age, it should have given him a heart attack. Killed him almost instantly."

Bruce let go of the collar and hurled his fist into Crane's face. Crane landed on the floor with a bloody nose.

"He's a strong man. Now where's the antidote?"

Crane pulled himself up and grabbed a vial. He handed it to Bruce. Bruce looked carefully at the liquid inside.

"This isn't the antidote!" he snarled. "It's the wrong color."

Bruce threw the vial at Crane's feet. A puff of purple smoke rose from the shards of broken glass. Bruce quickly covered his nose and mouth with a batwing. Crane's eyes held the same terrified expression Bruce had seen in Holmes'.

"Don't hurt me!" Crane cried. "Back! Back! You creature of the night! Don't take my blood!"

"Where's the antidote?"

Crane produced a vial containing a differently colored liquid and then crawled into the corner, screaming about bats and creatures of the night the whole time. Bruce turned and left.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce and Jamie were in high spirits when they left, but their faces fell when they reached the Sussex cottage. Or at least what was left of it. Smoke billowed into the skies. And orange flames followed after the billows.

Jamie screamed and ran towards the fire, but Bruce held her back.

"Where are his neighbors? Jamie, we need to call the fire brigade! We need to call the cops! We need to call somebody!"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Jon Crane was escorted from Oxford to a small, run-down apartment by men in olive drab. He brought the formula with him. He was to hand it over to other men when they came to the apartment. But when the other men arrived, Jonathan Crane was gone. The Nazis that had escorted him to the secret apartment were crawling across the floor like infants, muttering one word over and over the entire time. "Scarecrow."

**A/N – Coming soon: "The Case of the Missing Master."**


	19. The Case of the Missing Master, Pt 1

_DISCLAIMER – I didn't own any rights then, and I don't know._

_**A/N – 3/ 19/09 – I was revisiting this fic when I realized I had somehow accidentally replaced the content of Chapter 23, "The Case of the Missing Master" with a chapter from another fic. As the original chapter has been lost forever, I have tried to recreate it here as best as I could remember.**_

Bruce Wayne sat huddled in front of the fire, watching the orange and red flames dance wickedly. He thought of how he had felt when he discovered what had been his home for the better part of a year was on fire. The fire brigade had done what it could. Now, Bruce tried to imagine how Holmes, if he were still alive, would feel once he had discovered his house was burnt down. All of the mementos Holmes had kept over the years, all of the earthly possessions stored in that house, and all of the memories with them, possibly lost forever.

Bruce looked away from the fireplace. He and Jamie Watson were sitting in Chief Inspector Tobias Gregson's flat, heavy blankets draped over their shoulders, cups of steaming tea in their hands. Bruce studied Jamie's face. The shock from their initial discovery had faded. Now, there was just a blank expression.

"Can I ask you something?" Bruce said, gently. Jamie nodded. "What's your story?"

Jamie sighed.

"I always wanted to follow in my father's footsteps," she said. "Be a great doctor. No one thought such a young girl could pull it off. But my father had connections. A reputation. I was considered a medical prodigy by the time I was thirty years old."

It dawned on Bruce that Jamie was at least seven years older than he was. He was falling in love with an older woman.

"My mother died not long after that," Jamie continued. "And then my father. They said he died of a heart attack. I say more like a broken heart. Sherlock Holmes was like a surrogate father to me ever since." She turned to Bruce. "How about you? What's your story?"

"My parents died when I was ten," Bruce said, slowly. "We had gone to see a movie. _Nosferatu_. I got scared somewhere in the middle and asked if we could leave. Outside of the theater, a hood tried to steal my mother's pearl necklace. There was a struggle, and both my mother and father were shot, and the man who shot them got away. I made a vow that night. A vow to fight those who breed fear and prey on the weak and the innocent."

There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.

"What was Holmes' story?" Bruce asked.

"I always wondered what motivated him," Jamie said. "I think my father knew, but he refused to talk about it." She looked at the floor. "Now I guess we'll never know."

Chief Inspector Gregson entered.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" he said. "More tea? Something else on the fire?"

"No thank you," Bruce said.

"No thank you," Jamie agreed. "You've been very kind to us, though."

"We've been trying to retrieve what we can from the fire," Gregson said. "It's looking fairly hopeless, though. We did manage to retrieve these documents, however." He placed a box filled with papers down at Jamie's side. "I believe these bear your father's handwriting. He would have wanted you to have them."

Jamie couldn't speak. She merely nodded her head in gratitude. The Chief Inspector went back outside and Jamie began reading through the papers. After a few minutes, she found one that she showed to Bruce.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

_December 1__st__, 1988_

_Holmes and I had just bid "Good night" to our friend Inspector Gregory Lestrade after finishing up the rather trying case of Sir Theodore Ferguson. The case had taxed us both mentally and emotionally. We were sharing a bottle of port and warming ourselves by the fireplace when I endeavored to ask Holmes, as I had many times before, what event had started his rather extraordinary career before I met him._

_I thought he would wave away the question as usual, but that night he was finally willing to confide in me. He refused to make eye contact with me, but as he stared at the fire he began to tell his sad story._

"_My father was a well respected member of Parliament," he began. "My mother was an actress. She was the most beautiful person I've ever known. As my father's political career grew more agitating, he descended into alcohol and paranoia. He regularly beat my mother accusing her of being an adulteress and a whore. He beat me as well, calling me a whore's son."  
_

_Holmes paused at this point of the narrative, leaving an uncomfortable silence in the room. I wanted to coax him, but I was afraid if I said anything the moment would be shattered forever, and I would never know the full truth._

"_I was sent off to a boarding school in Switzerland when I was of age," he continued. "While I was away, my mother died. The police officially declared it a suicide. But there was gossip that my father had murdered her. I suspected this was the case, but I had no way of proving it. I never spoke to my father after that. But at that point, I swore I would never be fooled, that I would train my mind to be able to work out any puzzle, to solve any mystery, and to always find the truth."_

_I thought I saw tears in his eyes. I had never seen Holmes cry before, though I'm sure he could argue that it was merely the fire agitating his eyes. I was worried that Holmes, in his despair, would reach for the needle, but instead, he reached for the violin. That night, I heard the most beautiful and melancholy improvisation I have ever heard on that instrument, and I doubt I shall ever hear anything to match it._

_I am deeply moved that my friendship with Holmes has become such that he would confide something so personal in me._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

For a moment, Jamie and Bruce just stood staring at the piece of paper, taking everything they had just learned in. Then, Jamie spoke.

"Do you think he's still alive?" she asked.

"Holmes?" Bruce said. "I know he is. There's no way he could have been killed this easily. He's too strong. Too clever."

His voice shifted tone. It became low, guttural, and gargling.

"Holmes is still out there, somewhere," he said. "And I'm going to find him."

_**A/N – 3/19/09 – I'm afraid that's the best I can remember it. I know the original chapter had a much better literary flare, but this is enough to at least fill in the plot gap.**_


	20. The Case of the Missing Master, Pt 2

_Disclaimer: None of the titles, trademarks, or characters (with the exception of OC's) are mine._

**Superfan** – **_I had my back story for Sherlock Holmes decided on pretty early on while writing the story. When I decided to tweak what makes Holmes tick for myself, I thought it wise to stick to what other Sherlockians have come up with for Sherlock's past. Both "The Seven-Percent Solution", like you said, and "Young Sherlock Holmes" hinted at infidelity between Holmes' parents during Holmes' youth. And I've taken a lot of inspiration from both of those movies while writing this story._**

**Prayerrun – _I'm glad I'm not disappointing you. As for Dr. Watson's fate, I already described that. I'm sorry if I didn't make that clear enough, but Dr. Watson, in this universe, died of a heart attack._**

**Forcerlo – _Thank you for your reading, and for your great compliments. I feel like I'm really accomplishing something with this story if I've encouraged you to read the Sherlock Holmes stories. You won't be disappointed if you do. "The Hound of the Baskervilles" is the story that made me want to become a writer in the first place. As for more stories like this one, I'd like to. But I'm terribly busy, and this story has taken me so long to write. Also, I do other types of writing, and I need time for them._**

**A/N – _And now, part 2 of "The Case of the Missing Master"…_**

April 7th, 1936

The detective agency had been exceptionally quiet over the past few days. None of the operatives stood in the hall and bragged about their previous cases while drinking cool water from paper cones. They were too busy scouring London, discreetly asking about Sherlock Holmes. When Wiggins had learned of his former mentor's disappearance, and when Bruce had shared his theory that Holmes had not perished in the fire like Scotland Yard was assuming, Wiggins turned the entire agency into a massive task force.

Although Bruce wanted to be involved in the search, Wiggins refused to include him in his debriefings with the rest of the agency. Bruce was given less tasks to perform around the office. He spent most of his time sleeping on his cot and keeping the water coolers full. He got most of his information on the case from Ernie Stappleton, who himself could only share the snippets he knew based on his own instructions from Wiggins.

There were no big breaks in the case.

On the evening of the 7th, Wiggins appeared in the doorway of the room Bruce was sleeping in. Bruce looked up weary-eyed from his cot into Wiggins' usual disdainful expression.

"A Scotland Yard man to see you."

"Gregson?"

Wiggins left, and Inspector Stanley Hopkins took his place.

"I'm afraid that's what I've come to tell you about," Hopkins said. "I'd hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…"

"What is it? What's happened?"

"The chief inspector was found dead early this morning. They found his body beside the Thames."

Bruce said nothing for a minute, just trying to digest the few words Hopkins had said. He looked hard at the middle-aged inspector, tried to determine if he was just joking. Hopkins face held only solemnity. Bruce remembered the Wednesday morning on which he'd last seen Gregson. He had been so generous, so caring and sensitive to him and to Jamie. Bruce now realized that would be his final memory of Tobias Gregson.

"Drowning?" Bruce finally asked.

"No. That's what we thought at first, too. Simple accident. But no, Dr. Watson says. She determined the cause of death to be a broken neck."

"Still might be an accident."

"Yes. But it might not. Dr. Watson says death probably occurred about three days ago. She thinks she might even be the last person to see him alive."

"The killer was the last person to see Gregson alive, Inspector."

"So you do think it was murder?"

"I was with Dr. Watson, and with Gregson. He got a ring that shook him up a little. Ran off to meet someone."

Hopkins eyes narrowed in intense interest.

"Did he say who?"

"No," said Bruce. "No, he didn't."

"Did he say what it was about?"

"No. All he said was that he had to meet someone and that he expected to be back soon. I left shortly after he did. Came here."

"I just thought you'd like to know about it, since you played such a key role in some of his latest investigations."

"Yes. Thank you, Inspector."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sherlock Holmes snapped back into reality with a frightened scream. His face was soaked. At first, he thought he'd been out in the London rain, and then he realized it was a cold sweat.

Holmes could just make out the vision of a hypodermic needle above his head in the darkness.

"Sorry to interrupt your dreaming, Herr Holmes," a menacing voice said.

Holmes recognized the voice. It wasn't entirely familiar. It sounded more harsh than the voice he had heard before. It sounded distorted. But he knew he had heard it.

"It was time to administer the antidote," the voice continued.

Holmes tried to peer through the darkness to find a face to go with the voice, but all he could see was a bulky silhouette.

"I've left you to your nightmares long enough," the silhouette said. "But for the next part of your torture, I want you to be conscious. To be aware of the reality of your predicament."

Then the voice broke into a hysterical, demented laugh. To the harsh tones of the evil cackling, Holmes slipped back into a nightmare world.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce slowly walked along the length of the Thames, running his eyes back and forth across the ground in front of him. He didn't know what he was looking for, and he certainly wasn't finding it. He tried to imagine how Sherlock Holmes would behave in the situation. Look for blood stains? No. Not from a broken neck. The killing would have been really clean. What then? Footprints? Scraps of clothing? Bruce shook his head. It was raining. The drops struck the surface of the Thames and exploded, spawning hundreds of tiny rivulets in the water. Bruce's clothes were growing heavy and damp. He turned around and walked back to his cot at the William Wiggins Detective Agency.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

One of Wiggins' operatives was turning out the lights in the office as Bruce entered. He bid Bruce goodnight and left. The office seemed completely empty, but as Bruce came near to his room, he became aware of another presence.

Bruce opened the door as slowly as he could, but he was still unable to avoid the _crreeeekkk _the door made as it slid on its unoiled hinges. Bruce saw a huge lump under the blanket on his cot. He crept forward in a karate pose.

Screamer Wiggins slipped out from beneath the blankets. She was wearing a corset, and nothing else. Her strings of dirty blonde hair were caressing her waiflike bare shoulders. Her wicked green eyes glowed in the dark above her extremely sensuous, evil lips.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, batting her long lashes.

"We're not supposed to be together," Bruce said.

Screamer strutted to Bruce and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Big brother's not here right now," she said. "And I'd like to finish what he interrupted back in February."

Bruce grabbed Screamer's hands and pried them away. He pushed her back into the darkness. She let out one of her high-pitched shrieks. Then she giggled. In the darkness, without any vision of Screamer's face, the giggle triggered in Bruce's mind the image of an impudent imp in a corner of the room. Then Screamer sauntered back into view.

"I'm not interested," Bruce said.

Screamer slid her hand down Bruce's abdomen.

"Yes, you are."

Bruce pushed her away again. Again, Screamer sauntered back. Again, she clamped her tiny hands firmly over Bruce's shoulder. Then she began to pull him close to her. Her body rubbed against his. Then she tilted her head and began to move her lips to Bruce's.

"Floozie!" Bruce said. The force of the words his Screamer like a spit wad of venom. "I've had enough floozies already; I don't need another one.

Screamer's eyes flashed. They no longer held naughtiness. Instead, they held pure malice. Screamer appeared to be debating on slapping Bruce again, decided not to, and then marched past Bruce and out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Bruce threw away the blanket and looked at the curvy impression Screamer's corrupt little form had left in his cot.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Meanwhile, Holmes struggled to breathe. He was alone in a dark room, drowning under a thick layer of dust. He lifted his head and gasped for breath. The dust bunnies crawled up his nostrils and went diving painfully down his throat. Holmes coughed a terrible, choking, sickly cough. He felt every year he had been alive in the joints of his body, and then some.

"_Calm down, old man_," he told himself. _"Think rationally. That's your mantra, isn't it?"_

What did he know about his situation? Well, for one thing, he could raise his head. That meant his neck wasn't bolted down. _Good. Now what else? _Where were his hands?

Holmes could feel nothing but the pain at first, but somehow he managed to wiggle his fingers. They were down at his side. Free. _Good_. _Now what about the hands?_ Holmes tried to raise them. The rope burned into them. His arms were tied down.

_What about the legs_? Holmes could move his feet in small backwards and forward motions. He tried the entire legs. Both legs shot high into the air, sending a bolt of pain through his ancient bones.

Then he tried to sit up. He felt the rope. The only rope. One rope strategically tied across his center of gravity and around his arms. With only one thick rope around him, he was powerless. If he was younger, he could writhe his way out of the trap. But he didn't feel the energy now. He felt more ancient than time itself. More ancient than death.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

April 8th.

Jamie Watson opened her door to find Bruce Wayne waiting on the other side of it.

"I want you to take a walk with me," he said.

"What for?" she asked.

Instead of answering, Bruce grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her outside.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"I need your help," Bruce said when he had dragged Jamie far enough from her house that turning back to it now would be just as inconvenient as continuing on.

"I'm starting not to like your manners, Mr. Wayne."

"I've got to find Holmes, and I'm not going to rely on Wiggins for help. I can't rely on anyone on this horrid continent. I might have trusted in Scotland Yard, but now Gregson's dead."

"What about the other inspectors?"

"As a general rule, I don't put much faith in the brass buttons. There might be one good apple on every force, if you're lucky. I think Scotland Yard's one good apple is rotting."

Jamie was disgusted by the turn of phrase. She turned away, but Bruce caught her arm and spun her back around.

"Hopkins said you figured the cause of death, Dr. Watson," Bruce said.

"Yes, I did. I was fairly convinced the cause was a broken neck."

"How could you tell?"

Jamie looked at Bruce as if he was a small child in boarding school and she was the all-knowing headmistress.

"Try and touch your chin to the tip of your shoulder."

Bruce attempted it. He could get the corner of his cheek to touch the corner of his shoulder blade. By pushing with his hand, he could get his whole chin to rest on the spot on his shoulder closest to his own neck. He finally looked at Dr. Watson in defeat.

"Not natural, is it? Well, Gregson was found in just that position. Why are you asking about Gregson, anyway? What's he got to do with Holmes?"

"Everything. Sherlock Holmes and Tobias Gregson went way back. Gregson wouldn't just give up on Holmes, no matter what things looked like. I think whoever called the Inspector away from his house killed him, and whoever killed the Inspector knows wherever Holmes is."

"You think if you look for the Chief Inspector's killer, you'll find Holmes in the process?"

"You got it, doll."

"Where do I come in?"

"You're the only ally I have left in England whom I can trust. And you'll be a good resource. You're an expert in pathology and forensic science. Holmes has been tutoring you longer than he has been me."

Jamie looked Bruce over from head to toe, and then glanced over her shoulder back at her home over a couple of hills.

"If you won't do it for me, do it for Holmes," Bruce pleaded.

Jamie turned to Bruce and looked deep into his eyes.

"I'm doing this for you, not for him. Where do we start?"

Bruce gave her a small smile, but then he suddenly put a finger to her lips. On tiptoes, he paced around the soggy, grassy knoll on which he and Jamie were situated. He then dropped to the seat of his pants and slid down the hill. Jamie saw a figure in a brownish-red jumpsuit burst from behind a tree just as Bruce slid into it, feet first. A tail flew like a banner behind the jumpsuit, and Bruce grabbed tight hold of it, causing the figure to trip and land face first in the mud.

Dr. Watson carefully made her way down the hill.

The figure rose to its feet. Even with a mud-covered face, she was attractive. And familiar.

"Hello, Sabrina," Bruce said. "Aren't you supposed to be in the hoosegow right now?"

"I was looking for you, Bruce," the Golden Fox said, raising her hands in surrender.

"Forget it, Sabrina," Bruce said. "You're completely out of my system."

"No, Bruce!" Sabrina insisted. "Don't you see? I can help you!"

"Help us?" Dr. Watson interjected. "How?"

"We're after the same people," Sabrina said. "I was working for them, but since you made that go ka-blooey, they're bringing the whole world down on me."

"So you don't want to help us," Bruce said. "What you want is my protection."

"Is that so bad?" Sabrina said, wiping the mud off her face and across her chest. "What I want is these people out of the way, just like you. We can work together. We're both well aware of each other's considerable talents."

"Don't listen to her, Bruce!" Jamie insisted, placing both hands on his right shoulder. "She's a common crook!"

"Someone's a little bit catty," Sabrina said.

She hissed and made a clawing motion in the air to illustrate her point. Jamie let go of Bruce's shoulder and lunged towards Sabrina. Bruce held her back.

"Besides," Sabrina continued. "I know exactly who we're dealing with. Who exactly has your beloved leader Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Face it, Brucey. I'm your inside line."

Jamie looked at Sabrina bitterly, but Bruce held out his hand. Sabrina licked it.

"Looks like I'm coming aboard, lover boy."

**A/N – _Our unresolved cliffhangers will be resolved in the next episode, coming soon._**


	21. The League of Justice, Pt 1

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein._

**A/N – **_**This is usually the part where I apologize for taking so long to update again.**_

_**Well, it has taken a long time, but to switch things up, I'm not going to apologize. I've been incredibly, insanely busy lately, and I have been diligently working on this when I get the chance. I think you'll find this update worth waiting for. Therefore, no apology.**_

_**And this is usually the part where I say I've been reading Sherlock Holmes and Batman stories and pastiches and rewatching Batman and Sherlock Holmes movies for your benefit. Again to be different, I have been doing those things, but this time strictly for my benefit, or enjoyment, and not so much yours.**_

_**That much said, let's rejoin Sherlock Holmes and Bruce Wayne as they talk on one final adventure…**_

_Sherlock Holmes & Bruce Wayne_

_in_

"_**The League of Justice"**_

April 8th, 1936.

Sabrina Smith spun around in tight little circles, taking in the interior of Dr. Jamie Watson's cabin.

"So, what are the sleeping arrangements?"

"The arrangement is, you're going to stay out of my bedroom."

Sabrina grinned mockingly at Jamie, hissing like a cat and pawing the air.

"I guess I'll take the couch then," she finally said. She crossed to Jamie's sofa, marking her territory with her toe and then curling up in a ball on top of the cushions.

"Don't get too comfortable," Jamie said. "As soon as we sort everything out, you're gone."

"What a pity," Sabrina said. "I thought we'd get along so well, now that we're cohabitating. And I haven't had a sleepover in such a long time."

Jamie moaned in aggravation and stepped into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Bruce Wayne, who had been watching the two girls' interaction with mild interest, headed for the door.

"Bruce! Where are you going?"

"Scotland Yard. Gonna talk to Stanley Hopkins. See if he's turned anything up about Gregson or Holmes."

Sabrina's smug expression changed drastically. Her eyebrows arched in alarm.

"What about Gregson?"

"He's been murdered. I think by the same person who has Holmes."

Sabrina jumped up from her cozy resting spot and threw her arms around Bruce.

"Bruce, I think I know who killed Gregson. But it's someone close to you. Someone you trust…"

Sabrina suddenly fell silent. Bruce turned around and noticed Jamie standing behind him, wearing a pink negligee and matching kimono.

Sabrina appeared nervous. Bruce's heart began to beat more wildly.

"Bruce, is something wrong?" Jamie asked.

"No. Nothing at all. Good night."

And then Bruce left.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

At Scotland Yard, the desk clerk told Bruce that Inspector Stanley Hopkins was not in his bullpen.

"He's hardly been here at all, poor bloke," she confided in Bruce. "The Chief Inspector's death has him all in a tizzy."

She offered to leave a message for the inspector, but Bruce declined the offer, thanked her, and left.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

At the William Wiggins Detective Agency, Bruce began to fold up his cot and push it into a closet when Ernie Stappleton entered.

"What's all this, Brucie?"

Bruce turned around and anxiously clasped his friend's shoulders. This only made Ernie more confused.

"Listen, Ernie, how well do you know Jamie Watson?"

"Not as well as you do, I suppose, but… What are you getting at?"

Bruce released Ernie's shoulder and took a few deep, heaving breaths.

"Has Wiggins uncovered anything about Sherlock yet?"

"Nothing. He's sent us to check out all of Holmes' old haunts, all of his old enemies…"

"What about his old friends?"

"What? You don't think…?"

"I don't know _what_ to think right now, Ernie. Just tell me, what do you think about Jamie Watson?"

"She seems all right enough to me. I've only met her once or twice. Holmes talked about her a lot, but I've only seen him a little bit over the past year and before that not at all since I was a lad. You should know her better than I do."

"Look, Ernie. I don't think I can trust anyone right now. I can't stay here anymore."

"You can bunk at my place," Ernie offered. "I've got no one who would mind."

"Sounds good, but I'll have to meet up with you later. I've got some other things to take care of."

Ernie scribbled down an address and told Bruce he'd be expecting him there that night.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

As Bruce wandered alone around the streets of London that night, he realized he'd made a mistake. He'd let Dr. Watson get to close to him. Holmes said several times throughout his notes that women caused men to be biased in their judgments. Bruce had failed to heed this advice, maybe even intentionally to spite his mentor.

First, he'd let Sabrina Smith manipulate him, and he'd perhaps even almost become an unwitting accomplice to the Golden Fox's criminal rampage. He'd also let Screamer Wiggins get under his skin and damage his relationships with some of the most important networks he'd formed to assist him in London.

And now, as Bruce pushed through the door of the nearest pub, he contemplated his relationship with Dr. Jamie Watson.

His stay in England had been pretty safe, even tedious, in the months leading up to his first being introduced to Watson. After that, things started going wrong. Holmes almost died repeatedly. And now he vanished.

And, Bruce thought as he ordered a pint of ale and some fish and chips, he'd been too stupid to see the connection. Too stupid until Sabrina Smith had warned him that he had trusted Jamie too much.

Bruce leaned back and tried not too think about his situation. He listened to the sounds of the pub as he waited for his food. Darts were _thwack_!-ing against a dartboard. Drunks were boisterously swearing and singing. And loud voices were speaking in German at a nearby table. Bruce could hear their conversation more clearly than any of the other sounds in the pub though, unfortunately, he had not yet learned to speak German. He could only make out the words "fuehrer", "Aryan", and "Reinchsdorf."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce finished his greasy meal and headed back out onto the street, beginning his search for the address Stappleton had given him. He was almost there when a thought had occurred to him.

Bruce had learned of the Wiggins Detective Agency, with which Stappleton was affiliated with, around the same time he had met Jamie Watson. And that's when Holmes began dodging assassination attempts. And then Bruce realized another important thing. Sabrina had never said specifically that it was Jamie who Bruce shouldn't be trusting.

Bruce turned on his heels and began running as quickly as he could manage to Jamie's cabin.

_I've got to know who Sabrina meant_, he thought as he ran. _She's got to tell me. I've got to hear it from her. Now. Before I lose my mind._

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce pounded on the door of the cabin. No one answered. He pounded again. Nothing. He continued pounding, and he also started screaming. The door opened. Bruce grabbed Jamie by the shoulders and shook her hard.

"Where is she?"

Jamie had smiled when she'd found Bruce at the door, but she was frowning now.

"Who? Bruce, what's going on?"

Bruce threw Jamie to the side and barged into her cabin. He began searching.

"Bruce, what's going on?"

"Where is she? Where's Sabrina?"

"Bruce, I don't know! I went to the market to get some food. When I got back she was gone."

The phone rang. Jamie answered and then handed the phone over to Bruce.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Wayne? This is Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Scotland Yard. I've found something by the Thames, in the spot where Gregson was killed. I need you here right away."

"Be there in an instant."

And Bruce was out the door in a flash.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When Bruce arrived at the meeting place, the first thing he noticed was Sabrina Smith, bound and gagged and lying on the beach. The second thing he noticed was a young man kneeling down beside her. The man stood and turned.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Inspector Hopkins? Thank God you found her!"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. I've been looking for her for some time now."

The third thing Bruce noticed was the firearm Hopkins was holding.

"I thought Scotland Yard officers weren't supposed to carry guns."

Hopkins smiled maliciously and aimed the gun at Bruce.

"That's right," he said. "We're not _supposed_ to."

Bruce gasped.

"It was you. You killed Gregson!"

"Can't believe it took you this long to figure it all out."

"But why?"

"Because I hated him," Hopkins said, and he spat on the beach. "I gave my life to Scotland Yard, and he got the promotion I deserved! I couldn't support a family on a simple Inspector's budget. My wife left me. She took the kids with her… But when the fuehrer conquers the rest of the planet, I've been promised my slice of the world!"

"Hopkins, you're a Nazi? Wait a minute! Of course!" Bruce slowly took a tiny step closer to Hopkins and his gun. "Lady Morgan Barnswallow didn't fall and break her neck. We left you alone with Morgan and Sabrina, and you tried to silence them both. But Sabrina managed to run away and escape. You broke a lady's neck in cold blood. How disgusting! How very un-English of you!"

"Don't lecture me on what is and what isn't English, yankee!" Hopkins screamed.

Bruce took another baby step closer.

"So what happened next?"

"Gregson was always suspicious after that. Kept a close eye on me. He had to be got rid of. So I called Gregson and told him I had a lead on where his beloved Sherlock Holmes was, then I twisted his neck like I did the girl's."

"I can't believe you'd sell your soul to the devil like this."

"Shut up!" Hopkins said, and he grasped his gun tighter as Bruce continued to creep closer. "Don't come any closer!"

But Bruce did. Hopkins cocked back the hammer of the revolver. Then the bound Sabrina brought both her knees to her chest and thrust them away, sending both feet into the side of Hopkins' leg. Hopkins stumbled sideways, allowing Bruce to wrench the gun from his hand.

Bruce held the gun against Hopkins' head.

"Who are you working for?"

"Aldous Rhine."

"Aldous Rhine is dead! I watched him die! Who are you working for?"

"Aldous Rhine," Hopkins repeated.

Then Hopkins grabbed Bruce's wrist and twisted it hard. He grabbed the gun away. As his finger searched for the trigger, Bruce tackled him to the ground. The gun flew out of Hopkins' hand and landed near Sabrina.

Hopkins rolled on all of his weight and found himself on top of Bruce. He reached for Bruce's neck. Then there was a _bang_!

Sabrina had managed to get her tied-up hands on the gun and fire it at Hopkin's head. Hopkins collapsed.

Bruce untied Sabrina.

"I told you not to trust that guy!" she said.

"You could have been a little more specific," Bruce said through clenched teeth. He looked over at the late Inspector Stanley Hopkins' body. "There goes our one lead to Sherlock… and whoever's got him."

Bruce looked over his shoulder as he heard the sound of a noisy car engine. He saw the car, heard it hiss to a stop, and then saw Irene Adler step out.

"Mr. Wayne, the presence of yourself and your lady friend is cordially requested."

"Presence where?"

"How about you just get in the car and find out."

Bruce stood up and dusted himself off. He then offered a hand to Sabrina, helped her to her feet, and started to guide her away from Irene Adler.

Bruce heard Irene Adler's voice say his name. Then he turned and saw two muscular men holding guns step out of her car.

"I suggest you get it."

"Sure. Why not?" Bruce said with a sigh.

Bruce and Sabrina climbed into the car.

The inside of the car was more spacious than it looked. Sitting inside already were Dr. Jamie Watson and Ernie Stappleton.

**A/N – **_**And… To be continued…**_

_**In the meantime, please review.**_


	22. The League of Justive, Pt 2

_Disclaimer - I own no rights to the trademarks or characters herein. I own no rights at all. Thank you._

**Superfan - _Thanks for the review! Good thinking with the "Hound of the Baskervilles" thing, but I actually named Stappleton after one of the Baker Street Irregulars in the computer game "Sherlock Holmes: Secret of the Silver Earring." And as for the twists and turns... there not over yet. Just keep reading..._**

Following a mostly silent ride in the automobile, Bruce and the others were led into a decrepit, but large, old building. Each person was shown into a separate room. Bruce was told to wash up and get some rest. He eagerly let the cold water numb his hands and put an icy chill on his face. But he refused to rest, pacing back and forth in his cell, trying to put together the pieces of the mystery he was embroiled in.

Why had he been brought here? How were Stappleton and Watson involved in all of this? And, most importantly, where was Sherlock Holmes?

Finally, Irene Adler opened his door.

"He'll see you, now."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Irene Adler led Bruce from the tiny cell to a spacious foyer. In the center of the foyer was an extravagantly large desk. Bruce saw two faces above the desk. Immediately, and with a great deal of disgust, Bruce recognized Professor Andrew Davenport. He had never seen the corpulent gentleman beside Davenport before, but he recognized him immediately as well.

"You're Mycroft," Bruce said. "Sherlock's brother."

"You are correct," Mycroft responded. "And I am a mere bean counter for Her Majesty's government. However, I am here on behalf of someone far greater than myself, so you may call me simply 'M'."

"What do you want with me?"

"Your assistance," M said. "Not only has my brother disappeared, but he has been involved in a fight with an enemy of our government's for the last year. As have you."

Bruce was stunned by the statement for an instant, but then the meaning sank in.

"The Nazis!" he said. "The Nazis stationed in England!"

"Preposterous!" Davenport blurted. "I've been telling you from the start there's no way those fiends could have infiltrated our fair country! We'd be fully aware if they had. The idea is something torn straight out of cheap fiction and…"

"You have been telling us that, professor," M said. "Despite all evidence to the contrary. I believe Mr. Wayne and his friends would take a different viewpoint on the matter."

"They've been here for a long time now," Bruce said. "They were led by a man named Rhine, who was operating under the cover of the Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals company. Holmes and I saw both Rhine and Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals destroyed."

"This is the statement of one man!" Davenport insisted. "Surely…"

"Ernie Stappleton, whom I believe you also brought here, will confirm my story," Bruce said. "As will Miss Smith, who has managed to infiltrate the Nazi regiment in London."

"They already have," M stated.

"But… but…" Davenport stammered. "M-my c-calculations. They were p-perfect!"

"It would seem you made a mistake, Professor," M said. "After all, to err is human. Unfortunately, we can't afford such a large margin of error to cover your mistake. Which is why the British government no longer has a place for you."

Davenport was too stunned to respond. He just stood with his jaw gaping, then wrapped his arms around himself as if he was cold and, with jaw still hanging in the air, he sat down, disappearing behind the massive desk.

Bruce couldn't help smiling.

"Mr. Wayne," M continued, "you have been brought here because you, more so than any of us, should have some idea as to what these men are planning, and as to where they have taken my brother."

"I wish I had," Bruce said. "I've been racking my brain trying to figure that one out. But there's just not enough evidence."

"What type of evidence do you need?" M asked. "I know people who can provide it. You know the movement of our enemies better than anyone, and you have been studying my brother's methods."

"That's true," Bruce said. "But I can't put my finger on this. They were stationed out of Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals, but I saw it destroyed and…" Bruce stopped suddenly, his mouth gaping like Davenport's. "But when you eliminate the impossible, whatever is remaining…"

"No matter how improbable," M continued, "must be the truth."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sherlock Holmes struggled to lift his head as he heard a door creek open and heard footsteps approaching. The effort hardly seemed worth it anymore, though, and he let his head drop and closed his eyes, content to observe solely with his sense of hearing.

"Good afternoon, Herr Holmes," the voice of Holmes' captor boomed.

It still sounded familiar to Holmes. Now, with his eyes closed, Holmes' sense of hearing was growing sharper to compensate for the shut off of the lack of vision, and Holmes was more intent than ever on placing the familiar voice with a face.

"And what's so good about it?" he asked. Anything to keep the voice going.

"Ah. Spoken like a true cynic. You don't disappoint, _mein _friend."

"You're no friend of mine."

"But of course I am, Sherlock. For you and your dapper young boyfriend and I seem have been coming together again and again for almost a year now. But this time you have interfered with my plans one time too many. I find it useless to attempt anything else… until you and your friend have been taken care of… permanently."

"You may have me… but you'll never take Bruce."

"I doubt that very much, Sherlock. Sooner or later, one of my many friends will find him, though I am almost hoping… that he will find us instead. That would be most amusing, would it not?"

Holmes was trying with every fiber in him to put the voice to a face, but he couldn't match the voice with that of any living person.

"You tried to kill me," Holmes said. "You burnt my house down."

"Then we're even."

Holmes strained his neck to lift his head again. The shadowy figure in front of him was starting to look familiar.

"It can't be!" he gasped. "I saw you die."

"Yet I stand here, before you, living."

"Impossible! I don't believe in ghosts."

"But as you have often said, when you eliminate the impossible…"

There was the _snap_ of a window shade being opened, and bright light streamed into the room. The figure in front of Holmes was absolutely grotesque. A broad-shouldered giant stood in front of Holmes, covered in tatters of khaki cloth. The giant was disfigured, not quite human. The giant's barrel chest was black, charred and cracked, white bone showing through in several places. Muscles were evident where skin wasn't on the arms and legs. The face was damaged worst of all. It was more a skull than it was a head, with only occasional strips of charred flesh covering the bone. The eyes were completely gaunt and scarred, each part bleached white and indistinguishable from the next. A few stubbles of blonde hair remained on top of the scars. Holmes could see a portion of the thing's heart where there was a tear in the clothing and the flesh.

"…whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"Colonel Aldous Rhine? It can't be!"

"But it is, Herr Holmes. I thought my life had ended when you left me in my laboratory, pinned like a butterfly to that vat of chemicals, my experiments combusting and creating an inferno around me. But as I sat there, my body dying, I was being continually drenched in the Bane formula."

Rhine lifted and clenched a skeletal hand.

"Even with my flesh destroyed," Rhine continued, "the formula increased my muscular capacity, made my lungs stronger, made my heart beat more strongly. It made me impervious to the intense pain I was experiencing. It saved my life… all at the cost of my beautiful blonde hair and baby blue eyes. But it is no matter now… I am Aldous Rhine no longer. I am Ubermensch! I shall be called… The Aryan!"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Special Agent Irene Adler stepped in front of M's massive desk and handed a thick wad of papers to Bruce Wayne and to Mycroft Holmes.

Bruce flipped through the first few pages and then gave Irene an exasperated look.

"What does all of this mean?"

"It means you're right," she said. "The Reinschdorf's Pharmaceuticals company owns a warehouse in London, by the London docks. The blueprints are part of that packet I just gave you."

"How did you know?" M asked.

"Simple logic and deduction," Bruce replied.

"Good work, Mr. Wayne. I'll talk to my superior and see to it that we send a team over as soon as it becomes convenient."

"Conveniant?" Bruce blurted. "No way. I'm going there now."

And he turned to leave.

"Stop where you are!" M commanded. "You have no way out of this compound!"

"But I'll find one," Bruce said. "Believe me, I'll find one."

"I do believe you," M said. And he smiled. "In fact, I was hoping you'd display such readiness. But you're not leaving without your team."

"My team?"

M signaled, and Ernie Stappleton, Jamie Watson, and Sabrina Smith emerged from the corners of the room.

"The team that you seem to have formed yourself," M said. "The rag-tag band you see here. You each have your own special talents to contribute. Of course, Special Agent Adler will accompany you, as she represents the official government's interest in this operation. I dub you… the League of Justice!"

Jamie snickered.

"A little melodramatic, isn't it?"

Bruce drew Ernie closer and showed him the blueprints.

"We'd better start organizing things," he said, "because there's no way where getting into this place without a plan."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce watched Sabrina slip on her masquerade mask, running his eyes down from her dark, flowing hair and skintight costume to the ridiculous tail that swished back and forth as she shook her magnificent posterior. Then he sighed and slipped on his own masquerade mask, slipping the leather cowl Holmes had given him on after it. He tied the strap around his neck tightly to secure the unsightly wings suspended from his shoulders.

Someone grabbed him from behind and spun him around. It was Dr. Watson. She planted a lavish kiss on his lips. When she drew back and looked at him, she laughed.

"Why are you in that ridiculous getup?" she asked.

"It's the stealthiest thing I have," Bruce said, adding the bat ears to the cowl. "I need to blend in with the shadows, become a symbol rather than a human being."

Jamie placed both hands on Bruce's cowl and then ran her fingers down the length of the ridiculous bat ears jutting from Bruce's head.

"Then you definitely have to do something about these ears," she said between giggles. "_Stealthy _isn't the first word I'd use to describe them."

"They'll have to do for now," Bruce said. Then he returned her kiss.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sabrina Smith peered from behind a crate in her prone position and observed what should have been a familiar warehouse. This was her first time seeing the front of it without the impediment of a blindfold. It was about how she pictured it: old, ugly, and decaying. But it was taller than she had imagined. And apparently the structure was sounder than it looked, as two rather muscular men were pacing back and forth across the rooftop.

Sabrina remained in the position, poised and waiting. Finally, a small gray cloud billowed from the top of the roof, and the men moved towards it. Sabrina crept to the front door of the warehouse. Then she stood up and hammered out the opening bar of the German national anthem with her fist, as she had heard her Nazi escorts do before. Finally, a young man opened the door. Sabrina leaned against the doorframe and gave him her best come-hither look.

"Sorry," she said. "I know I wasn't invited this time but…"

She tuned out as he yelled a few words at her in German. Then she grabbed his shoulders and pressed her body against his.

"I believe your leader wants to see me," she said. "The Golden Cat. Check with him."

That's when a more familiar man appeared at the doorway. One of the men standing by the desk the last time she had been there. Sabrina let go of the first man and latched on to the second instead.

"Fräulein Golden Fox," he said. "Do come in."

The Golden Fox thanked the German and stepped inside.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Jamie Watson threw the bottles of chemicals Bruce had given her and then dived into the river. As Bruce had explained earlier, the explosion created very little noise and just two small puffs of smoke, enough to temporarily distract the guards on the roof without alerting the guards deep within the warehouse. The guards were heading towards the place the chemicals had landed. Hopefully, by the time they turned around, Sabrina would be inside.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Ernie Stappleton sat on the upper story of an adjoining warehouse and watched the front door. Irene Adler stood by his side.

"All right," Ernie said. "She's in. Head over now. And remember, love, just stick to the plan."

"All right," Irene said. "I will."

As Irene Adler walked away, Ernie said a silent prayer.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Irene pounded on the door, imitating the knock Sabrina had taught her.

Ernie watched through the binoculars as a man came to the door. He saw Irene emulating Sabrina's sultry pose. The man in the warehouse made a beckoning motion. Another man emerged from the warehouse. The two men laughed and then escorted Irene inside. Ernie continued praying, but it seemed so far that everything was going exactly the way he and Bruce had planned it.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The Golden Fox dropped her pouch after being led upstairs.

"I'm sorry, boys," she purred. "Would you mind bending over and picking that up for me?"

They both did. Sabrina swiftly brought her ankle down on one of the men's necks, and then she brought her foot back into the other's face. She bent down and picked the pouch up herself, removing the hypodermic inside and giving each man an injection of the tranquilizer within. She then removed a long rope and, after checking to make sure the coast was clear, uncoiled it out the rear window.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Jamie Watson emerged from beneath the filthy river, coughing up filth and taking several deep gulps of fresh air before grabbing onto the rope Sabrina had unfurled from inside the warehouse. As she began to ascend, Bruce caught hold of the rope, his costume dripping as he climbed into the air.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Ernie gazed intently through his binoculars at the warehouse window. Finally, he saw the agreed upon signal: the waving of a reddish-gold flag in the window. Ernie put down his binoculars and picked up his revolvers. He made sure each chamber was loaded. There was nothing left to do but sit back and wait for all of Hell to break loose.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The Aryan held Irene Adler in one powerful arm while opening the door to Holmes' cell with the other.

"I have brought you a guest," he said. "She insisted upon seeing you. I decided to grant her wish, to show that am not completely without manners."

Aldous Rhine's teeth showed pearly white from his blackened skull.

"She is attractive… for a woman her age," he taunted. "You could do much worse."

And he tossed her onto the cot beside Holmes. Holmes' bonds had been undone, allowing him to sit up and suffer in the dark confines of his cell.

"When the time comes, I shall kill you both!" the Aryan hissed, and he slammed the cell door shut.

"Fiend!" Holmes said, leaping to his feet and screaming at the door. "How dare you do this thing to a lady!"

Irene put both of her hands softly on Holmes' shoulder.

"Sit down, Sherlock," she said. "This is what I wanted. No matter what happens now, at least we are together."

Holmes sat back down on the cot, and his fingers linked with Irene's.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Three men were walking and talking among themselves when they saw the belly dancer in front of the window. They drew their guns, but approached curiously, with their guns aimed at the floor.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Watson said. "I'm dripping wet, and I just thought…"

The Nazis raised their guns.

Then, suddenly, something dropped behind them. All at once, the three men peered over their shoulders to behold… what looked like a hideous creature. Half-bat, half-man.

One of the Nazis screamed.

All three were wrapped in the creature's wings. The figure disappeared with them into the darkness. When it emerged again, the Nazis were no longer in its wings.

"All right, Jamie," the bat-man said. "Everything's going right so far."

"Bruce, I'm scared."

"Don't be. Just focus on finding Sherlock. If anything goes wrong, just call out and I'll be there."

He caressed her hair once and then headed back into the shadows.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The bat-man clung to a wall and peered around the corner. A couple of men were walking down the hallway, conversing casually in German. Bruce wished he could understand what they were saying. He held his breath as they passed and then jumped around the corner and prepared to dart down the hallway.

There was a loud _rrrippp!_

One of the clumsy batwings had become caught on a nail in the wall. Bruce tried to run again, but the wing held tight. As he struggled to free the wing, one of the ridiculous bat ears caught on something as well. Bruce yanked with all of his might on the wing and then on the ear, horrified as he saw the two men turn around and march hastily towards him.

Bruce gave one last tug, and then he was pistol-whipped. As he faded out of consciousness, he was aware of the men removing the wings and bat ears.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

When Bruce Wayne was thrown into the cell, the first thing he saw was Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler embracing. Holmes quickly dropped the embrace, however, and ran to Bruce.

"My boy!" he exclaimed. "Is it really you? How did you find me?"

"I'll explain later," Bruce said. "Right now, we just need to focus on getting you out of here."

"But there's no time!" Holmes said. "Bruce, it's…"

"Ahh, Mr. Wayne," a calm, menacing, but extremely grating voice with German accent said. "So you are the mysterious 'batman' who foiled my last operation. I suspected as much. But now that I have a complete set, I shall doubly enjoy eliminating the three of you!"

Without turning, Bruce muttered, "I'm sure you will, Colonel Rhine!"

Rhine and Holmes both gasped.

"How did you know who it was?" Holmes asked.

Bruce turned to face Rhine.

"I knew an operation as organized as yours wouldn't have been complete with only one base," Bruce said. "And all those other hair-brained schemes had your name all over them. So I came to the only logical conclusion: you somehow survived our last encounter."

"If you can call this surviving," Rhine said with a snarl. "I am Aldous Rhine no longer. I am now… The Aryan!"

Rhine opened his mouth to speak again, but he was distracted by the sound of a thunderous explosion, followed by a large amount of screaming. This was soon followed by a variety on gunshots, married with more screams.

As Rhine was distracted, Bruce shoved him as hard as he could. Rhine stumbled back, and Bruce threw himself at him. But as Bruce flew into the air, Rhine caught him by the throat.

**_A/N - Tune in next time... same bat-category... same bat-title... for the exciting conclusion of "The Mystery of the Dark Knight"!_**


	23. A Superior Villian

_Disclaimer: None of the titles, trademarks, or characters (with the exception of OC's) are mine._

**They call me Bruce – **_**Thanks for the very nice compliment. It's always been a dream of mine to write Sherlock Holmes professionally, and I'm afraid right now it's still just a dream.**_

**Louie Pastiche – **_**Nice work deducing "The Aryan" 's literal pedigree. Your impatience can end now. Here's the conclusion of the fanfic.**_

Ernie Stappleton tapped his foot anxiously and peered out of the door frame he was hiding behind. It seemed the racket on the top floor had drawn all of the Nazis there. Ernie was standing next to a tiny pile of gunpowder on the floor. The tiny pile was the start of a trail he had made. The trail led to another room, in which he had loaded, one by one, barrels of TNT. The explosion would bring down half the building and would roust the remaining Nazis out of their lair. It was the same trick Holmes had used to capture the Golden Fox, and years earlier to nearly capture Irene Adler. Only this time it wasn't a harmless smoke bomb. It was real. People would probably die.

This building would be burnt to the ground the same way the Nazis had burnt down Holmes' cottage. After lighting the pile, Ernie would have just enough time to run out the front entrance before the TNT blew.

But Ernie had selected this exact spot because the other members of the League of Justice would have to cross him to escape the building. He hadn't seen any of them go past yet. They were still distracting the Nazis upstairs. Hopefully, they were all right.

Ernie would hold off as long as he could. He wanted his friends to get away. But he knew his country was depending on him, even more than they were. The gunshots above him sounded deadly serious, and a few of the other League members might have sacrificed themselves for the good of the cause already.

He'd hold off a few more minutes but then, like it or not, he would light the fuse.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce Wayne struggled for breath as The Aryan held him off the ground by the neck, gripping it in only one powerful hand. Bruce raised his arms and desperately wrenched, scratched, pounded, whatever it took, at the powerful arm. But it was no use. The Aryan seemed incapable of feeling pain.

Bruce saw bright lights forming before his eyes and felt dizzy before the monster lowered him back to the tip of his toes, only for a second, before lifting him back up and releasing him, sending Bruce launching across the room into the nearest wall.

Bruce still felt dizzy, but he tried to ignore the pain he was feeling throughout his entire body. He tried to render himself incapable of feeling any pain, just like his opponent. Through Aldous Rhine's tree-trunk like legs, Bruce could see the terrified expressions of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes. The two stood in their cells, transfixed by the terror.

"Go!" Bruce called to them. "Run! Now!"

Then one of the tree-trunk like legs swung out and kicked Bruce in the face. Bruce rolled over to his side and spat out chips of his teeth, along with a tiny puddle of blood. As Bruce brought a hand to his face to wipe away the trail of blood and saliva on his chin, he was hoisted up from behind and turned around to face Aldous Rhine as the monster barred hideously white teeth and made a sound more animalistic than human. Then Bruce was thrown into the wall next to the door of the cell Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler were still standing in.

Bruce was about to yell at them to leave again when Rhine threw him to the ground and threw an oversized fist into his face. Bruce lifted his head and bit into Rhine's arm. Rhine just laughed. Bruce turned and spat again. Biting Rhine was like biting into a piece of charcoal.

Then Bruce saw Jamie run to Sherlock and Irene, carrying a pistol. She let out a little shriek and then aimed at Rhine's head and fired. A bit of Rhine's exposed skull shattered, but the beast just laughed again. Jamie lunged closer, but Holmes caught her by the arm.

"No, Jamie!" he said. "Let's get out of here! This is something he has to do on his own!"

The Aryan lifted Bruce to his feet and, holding Bruce in place with one enormous hand on his shoulder, threw a series of punches into Bruce's face. Between the punches, Bruce managed to call out to Jamie.

"Tell… Ernie… not… to… wait… for… me… Light… the… fuse… now…"

Jamie tried to respond, but Bruce couldn't make out the words as the beating continued, and Sherlock and Irene each had a grip on Jamie's shoulders and were running away with her.

Bruce threw several small punches up to Rhine's elbow, but to no avail. In desperation, he launched his foot to where Rhine's groin should be. Rhine laughed his jolly, mocking laugh again. Then Bruce remembered how Jamie's bullet had impacted Rhine's skull. He wasn't invulnerable, after all. With all of his might, Bruce brought a karate chop down _on top_ of Rhine's elbow. Rhine was still laughing when half of his arm fell to the floor and shattered. When he saw Bruce move away, he looked at where his arm was supposed to be and sobbed once, loudly. Bruce dropped to his back and sent both of his feet towards Rhine's center of gravity, forcing Rhine down the hallway and into a wall.

Bruce grinned defiantly at The Aryan, who had definitely stopped laughing. The monstrous German snarled and lunged himself at Bruce, but Bruce braced himself. Both latched onto each other and fell to the floor together, rolling and wrestling their way down another corridor. Bruce found himself on top and tried to get his hands around Rhine's neck, but the charred flesh broke away and Bruce found himself touching slimy cords and a long bone.

Bruce let go in horror, but Rhine laughed one last time and rolled over, pinning Bruce below him. The Aryan put his remaining hand down on Bruce's throat. As he pressed, Bruce grabbed his opponent's thumb and pulled it back with all of his might. The thumb broke off. Bruce slid his neck through the new gap and gasped for breath.

The Aryan raised his hand and looked at where his thumb should have been, and while he pondered this, Bruce gathered up his strength and made his way out from under the behemoth.

An explosion rocked the building.

The floor gave way under the two combatants, forming a slope leading about halfway to the level below. Both began to roll down, but Bruce managed to grab a corner of a floorboard that was jutting out and to hang on to it. Rhine cried out as he tumbled down the slide and fell to the floor below.

The slide caught fire beneath Bruce, who reached up and found another gap in the floorboard. Climbing up to it, Bruce was able to grab at the point where floor and ceiling had separated from each other. He looked up and saw the ears and wings from his bat costume, still caught on the wall, forming a sort of bat symbol. Bruce desperately grabbed at the corner of the wings and put all of his weight on them as the floor broke completely from the wall and shattered below his feet.

That's when the bat wings tore away from the nail they were caught on.

Bruce screamed as he hurtled towards the floor, but when he caught the other bat wing, the costuming piece acted as a parachute, and Bruce slowly glided to the ground below.

Flames were slowly spreading across the floor here. Bruce saw Rhine's massive figure lying prostrate across the ground. Bruce didn't want to go closer, but he knew he couldn't just leave The Aryan to return from the grave once again. Bruce ran beside the body and reached a hand toward the neck to feel the pulse, but then he was reminded that Rhine didn't have much of a neck left. Then Bruce really looked at the body. Once again, Rhine had become impaled, this time by a jutting piece of wood. But Rhine no longer had a pulse. Bruce could see the exposed heart, and he could see that the piece of wood which had impaled Rhine had pierced exactly through the center of it. It was no longer beating.

Bruce turned towards the flames that were rapidly consuming the room. He used the batwings to muffle out the smoke and then darted into the fire.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Outside, Bruce coughed and tried to make his way away from the smoke to breathe in fresh air. His batwings fell away as ashes as he walked.

A line of stalwart constables were holding a group of wheezing Nazis at rifle point. Willy Wiggins was shaking hands with his top operative, the heroic Ernie Stappleton, who then received a series of kisses from adoring Screamer Wiggins. Jamie Watson was deep in conversation with Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was holding Irene Adler closely. But the Golden Fox was nowhere to be found.

"Where is she?" Bruce asked Ernie, who was captive in Screamer's tight embrace, frantically. "What happened to Sabrina?"

"I didn't see her come out, Bruce," Ernie said. He frowned. "I'm sorry."

Bruce turned slowly, then he began to move in the direction of the inferno. Ernie broke free of Screamer's grasp and caught Bruce by the shoulders and spun him around.

"It's no use," he said. "If you went in there now, you'd never come back out."

Bruce tried to lunge away from Ernie, but the private eye held him tight. Finally, Bruce sighed and ceased to struggle.

Sherlock Holmes, former consulting detective, held Irene Adler, special government agent, in his arms. She caressed one of his cheeks and then kissed it. Holmes smiled at her.

"But what of your husband, Norton?" he asked.

"Dead twenty years now, God rest his soul," Irene replied. "I think it's time to move on."

"I couldn't agree more," Holmes said. And then he kissed her.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

May 1st, 1936.

"What do you suppose they'll do to Davenport?" Bruce Wayne asked.

"They'll be some sort of secret trial," Sherlock Holmes replied. "They will need to clear up whether Davenport should be expelled from his position for neglect and incompetence, or hanged for conspiring with the Nazis and treachery against his country. I think the latter would be giving the professor too much credit. Considering his intellect, I'd say the former is far more likely."

Bruce had his bag slung over his shoulder, and he picked up Jamie's clock to add it to the small amount of luggage he would be taking with him as he continued his globetrotting.

"I figured it out," Holmes said. "The time your clock is permanently set at. It's the exact time of your parent's death."

Bruce looked at Holmes.

"You didn't just figure that out," he said. "How long have you known?"

"About the clock," Holmes said, "or about your parents? I've known what was driving you all along. I just said that you didn't have to tell me what it was, if that was your wish."

"I read the entry in Dr. Watson's journal," Bruce responded, "so now I know what drives you, too."

Holmes placed a hand gently on Bruce's shoulder.

"One last piece of advice, my young protégé," he said. "The thirst for revenge is never quenched. It only brings pain. If you truly wish to fight evil, you can not live only to fight the evil that had been done against you. That is revenge, not justice. You must set a higher ideal for yourself, or you risk being motivated by something primal, and you lower your self to the level of those you have vowed to fight against."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Bruce and Holmes stepped out of the cottage into the daylight. The sun was setting. Jamie Watson was standing there, waiting for them.

"Are you sure I can't persuade you to stay on any longer?" Holmes asked.

"No," Bruce said. "It's tempting, but I can't make my home here. I have a mission to accomplish, and you said my training was complete here."

"You found Rhine, brought down his lair, uncovered his gang," Holmes said. "And you did that all without my help. Yes. You are right. I have now taught you everything that I can. You are ready to move on."

"What will you do without me here?"

"I have found a new companion."

Bruce followed Holmes' gaze and saw Irene Adler's silhouette in the sunlight.

"But, Sherlock…"

"She'll be taking your quarters, Bruce," Holmes said with an ecstatic smile. "She shall help me tend to the bees, and she'll be much more appealing to my failing eyesight than you were."

"But what about all of that talk of a woman biasing your judgment?"

"Irene Adler is not just _a _woman," Holmes said. "To me she is _the _woman, the single figure that eclipses the whole of her sex. Besides, I'm retired now, and it's about time I get all of this crime fighting business out of my system and find a decent woman to settle down with."

Holmes glanced from Bruce to Jamie.

"I'd suggest the same thing for everyone," he said, and then he patted Bruce's shoulder. "So, what's next for you?"

"I'm going to make my way to Australia, to find an old Aboriginal medicine man. If nothing else, he can teach me how to ring a boomerang."

The two men laughed and Holmes extended his hand.

"Good bye, Bruce."

Bruce shook it.

"Good bye, Sherlock."

"I'll leave you two alone to say your goodbyes."

Holmes walked away, but before fading into the distance, he turned back.

"My final wish for you is that someday you find a young protégé who will cause you as much torment and anguish as you have caused me."

Holmes paused and scratched his head perplexedly.

"On second thought, I wish you several."

Bruce turned to Jamie and frowned.

"Please stay," Jamie said. "And don't do it for Holmes. Do it for me."

"There's nothing for me here."

"What about me?" Jamie asked. "Don't you love me?"

Bruce placed a hand on her chin.

"Jamie, listen…" he began. "For a little while, when Sabrina disappeared, when Hopkins had her… I thought that you were one of them. I thought you had betrayed me."

Jamie looked offended for a second, but then she laughed.

"That's all right, darling," she said. "I forgive you."

Bruce lowered his hand.

"That doesn't matter, Jamie," Bruce said. "What matters is that I didn't trust you. And I still don't trust you. I can't trust you, or any other woman, or even any other human being. Not if I'm going to become part of the world of crime, where no one can be trusted."

"I don't understand, Bruce."

"I don't either," Bruce said. His voice trembled a little, and he squinted his eyes tightly to keep from crying.

"Bruce, you don't have to go. You don't have to be part of that world. You can be a consulting detective, like Uncle Sherlock. You've made so many friends here that would be your clientele and…"

"That's another thing," Bruce interrupted. "There's no room in what I want to do for friends."

_And certainly not for lovers_, he thought to himself. How could he make her understand? _I can't become close to anyone, because I can't stand to see anyone else hurt… like my parents._

"I know you won't be fully able to understand this," Bruce said. "But I've already made a commitment to someone. To my parents. I made a vow to them, and I have to keep it. Or everything I've experienced here in England will have been for nothing."

"How can you say it's all for nothing when it's brought you to me?" Jamie cried, and then tears began flowing down her cheeks. Bruce squinted again.

"And that's still not all," Bruce said. "I can't stay with you, because when I'm around you I _feel_. And that's something else I can't do. I can't allow myself to feel. I've got to numb myself. Because if I don't numb myself I'll never be able to do the things I know I have to."

Jamie breathed deeply and wiped away the tears.

Still sobbing, she said, "Just kiss me one more time, and then look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me. Then I'll say good bye and let you go."

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips and leaned in closer to Bruce, but he pulled away.

"I can't," he said.

Then he walked past Jamie. He saw the silhouettes of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler kissing in the sunset. Then he turned to take one last glance at Dr. Watson. She wasn't watching him leave. She had her back turned fully to him. The only hint of her emotions was in her shoulders, which slowly rose and fell several times.

**_A/N - 3/19/09 - I have removed the original epilogue that appeared here and placed it in its own chapter, for easier reading._**


	24. Six Years Later

_DISCLAIMER – I didn't own any rights then, and I don't know._

New York, New York, USA.

May 15th,1936.

Morton, the butler, stood at attention in the front of the modest manor's gates as the chauffeured limousine braked to a park at his feet. Morton, slowly and carefully, made his way to the passenger side door and opened it. He then opened the gate of the manor. It wasn't until the passenger was through it that he spoke.

"Hello, Miss Kyle. I trust you enjoyed your stay in London?"

"Immensely, Morton," the lovely woman said and smiled. "What's li'l sis up to?"

Morton moved to the house and the woman noted the girl sitting in a boarding school uniform on the porch. The girl stood up quickly and smiled wildly.

"Sabrina! You're back!"

Selina Kyle was younger than Sabrina, with all of her sister's beauty, but much shorter, with a shorter nose and a thinner face. Her hair was blonde while her older sister's was brunette, but they both had the same high cheekbones.

Selina sat back down on the porch, and Sabrina sat down beside her.

"What's all this I hear about you getting kicked out of boarding school?"

"_Almost_ kicked out of boarding school," Selina corrected hastily. "Nothing big. I got caught with a boy in my room…"

Sabrina gasped.

"But he was just sitting there! We weren't even doing anything!"

"I have a feeling that's just the latest one," Sabrina said.

"There were a few other little things," Selina said. "But what can I say? I'm a troublemaker… just like you, big sis'."

Selina rested her head on Sabrina's shoulder. Sabrina Kyle laughed but said, "Mom and dad are going to throw a conniption. You know that, right?"

"Don't worry. Morton straightened everything out. As far as the school's concerned, none of my shenanigans ever took place."

Sabrina stood up.

"I've got a new friend for you."

"Really? Where?"

"She's in the limo."

Sabrina Kyle rose to her feet as Morton came marching back, something that appeared to be a large ball of hair from a distance in his arms. Morton handed it to Selina, who stroked it softly. The ball of hair suddenly transformed into a slender, glossy black kitten. Sabrina set the kitten down beside Selina, who giggled with delight.

"You'll have to promise to take good care of this one," Sabrina said. Then, more sternly, "Unlike the last five!"

Selina giggled more loudly.

"I will, I promise!" she said to Sabrina. Then she added, much more softly, to the cat, "Won't I, Miss Kitty?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Six Years Later…

1942.

Gotham City.

Even with the cowl off and set on the bench beside him, Bruce Wayne was Batman. The loud screeching all around him reminded him of that. As if he'd forget. He was so distracted by the small piece of material in front of him that he forgot all about Wayne Enterprise, all about stately Wayne Manor just above his head. He was Batman.

Batman inserted the data into the Bat Computer.

_Just like one of Allan Gates' fancy typewriters,_ he thought. _Just insert the data and an answer sheets slides out. _

But this time the answer wasn't sliding out. Batman pounded the desk beside the Bat Computer and roared in frustration. This scared the bats, sending them flying all around him and increasing the volume of their screeches, but did nothing to solve his problem. The computer shouldhave crosschecked the material with all of the clothing stores and manufacturers in Gotham. But it found no matches.

Batman hung his head, grabbing tight on his hair and pulling. He let go and looked at the tiny green piece of paper beside the computer.

"_a Teddy, not a camisole. take it out and Bear it all."_

He kicked himself.

"_Get your mind out of the gutter, Dark Knight Detective_," he thought. "_It's so obvious_."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Inside the old, closed down Tynker Toys Shop, Barbara Gordon, the daughter of the Gotham City Police Commissioner, looked with wide eyes at the madman in the green three-piece suit: light green dress shirt, royal purple vest, and a dark sport jacket. A green derby completed the ensemble. It would be almost leprechaun-like, especially taking in to account the man's demented smile, except he was incredibly tall. His whole outfit was covered in black and purple question marks. The hair peeking out of the derby was neon red, just like Barbara's.

A giant yo-yo was on the floor behind Barbara, it's long string thrown over a rafter and it's giant "finger" loop around Barbara's neck. She was standing on an oversized Jack-in-the-Box, and The Riddler was laughing merrily as he turned the crank.

"Barbara Gordon," he said between chuckles, "you have been sentenced to death by hanging from the neck!"

"You're insane!" Barbara shouted. "Someone will come for me."

"You'd better hope it's one of my men, telling me we've received the ransom money," he said. "'Cause it won't be the Batman. He'll never figure out my clever riddle in time!"

The Riddler let go of the crank and a slow, eerie rendition of "Pop Goes the Weasel" began to play.

The Riddler stopped laughing. He thought he saw something. He kept staring in the direction of where he could have sworn he'd seen movement. Just a trick of the light, perhaps? But, no, something was coming. The Riddler could see the yellow circle in the distance. As it came closer, he could make out black in the yellow, like a swarm of bees. A swarm of bees buzzing in his direction. But no again. On closer inspection, it wasn't a swarm of bees, but rather a single bat.

Then a swarm of bright colors appeared beside the bat. They were flashy, like a circus. Not stealthy at all. The Riddler just stood staring with his jaw dropped, listening to the music coming from the Jack-in-the-Box.

Finally, he could see that the swarm of colors was the clothing on two men.

A black object flew threw the air, resembling a bat in flight. It sliced through the thick string around Barbara's neck. Barbara leaped from her perch seconds before the song ended and the huge Jack emerged from the Box.

The bat-thing flew back towards the man, who caught it in his gloved hand. He was wearing a long cape that draped all around him like a bat's folded wings. He was wearing a mask and a cowl with two short, vertical "ears", not outstretched horizontally in such a manner that they might get caught on something.

His companion was wearing a mask and brightly colored tights. Not quite so stealthy.

"Edward Nygma!" the Batman said, his voice low, guttural, gargling. "It's over."

The Riddler looked around him, terrified. But the only way out was through the two men. He looked straight at them and made a run for it. Batman threw his hand out and the Bat-bola caught Nygma around the ankles. Nygma fell on his face.

The Batman stepped over a group of teddy bears, stuffed with the same type of material as he had received a sample of attached to the riddle. Barbara Gordon ran to the Batman and threw her arms around him. He gently but firmly attempted to push her away. Then Commissioner Gordon burst in, followed by GCPD squad. Barbara quickly relinquished her hold on the Batman and embraced her father instead.

"We came as soon as I got your message, Batman," the Commissioner said. "Thank you."

"But, holy tiddlywinks, Batman!" Robin exclaimed. "How did you know where the Riddler's hideout was? And how did you know the Riddler was really Edward Nygma?"

Robin thought he saw a small half-smile cross his partner's grim façade.

"Elementary, my dear Robin. Elementary."

**A/N**_** – I was tempted to title this last chapter "The Monster Off My Back." It wouldn't really have anything to do with the story, but it describes how I feel. Not that it hasn't been a blast, mind you. It's just that I've put an awfully large amount of time and effort into this story. It's taken me over a year, and I've dealt with family members seeing me writing and asking me why I've made such a large investment in something I can't legally publish.**_

_**But, despite everything, it's been fun. Of course, if I had it all to do over again, there are things I'd do differently. That's how it goes when you start writing with only the vaguest of outlines in your head and try to shape the thing as you go. But, overall, I'd like to think that I've spun a decent yarn, and that an "unwritten chapter" in the Batman legend has finally been adequately written.**_

_**So I'd like to thank every one of my readers, and especially my reviewers, and bid you all **_**adieu **_**until some other day.**_


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